


Once Bitten, Twice Shy

by rotrude



Category: Merlin (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Angst, Christmas fic, M/M, Misunderstandings, Romance, minor character spoilers for series 5, vaguely hinted at past minor character death
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-12-10
Updated: 2012-12-18
Packaged: 2017-11-20 18:38:06
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 8
Words: 29,676
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/588447
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rotrude/pseuds/rotrude
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Very loosely based on Wham's <i>Last Christmas</i>. Knowing that Arthur is going to be alone over the holidays and that he had a bad break-up the previous year, Morgana invites him to spend Christmas with her and her friends at her chalet. The guests are a surpise. Some bring back memories while others... Others may be a promise for the future.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> So, this is my personal holidays challenge; i.e., to manage to finish this before it's actually Christmas. It's going to be advent fic that way. A bit every few days til the twenty-fourth. If I fail, it's going to be Christmas fic in January.

Morgana grabs the mug Arthur gives her, eyes the rim as though she thinks Arthur hasn't washed it properly before giving it to her, and then brings it to her mouth with a dissatisfied twist of her lips. “Really, Arthur,” she says, “you're the only person I know who can't manage decent tea.”

Arthur tries not to feel irritation at Morgana's dig though he has a hard time doing so. Being zen and sharing breathing space with Morgana rarely go hand in hand, after all. Trying to show that he's patient and not easily got at, he gives Morgana what he thinks of as an I'm-not-fazed smile, and says, “I have better things to do, you know, than making tea to your exact specifications.”

Morgana puts her mug down on the coffee table, a complete rejection of Arthur's tea-making skills. “Arthur,” she says, tapping the side of the mug with a sharp finger nail, “this is tepid water you dumped a tea bag in for ten seconds or so. That's not tea.”

Arthur sinks into the sofa across from Morgana's in a lazy, undignified sprawl, one leg stretched listlessly in front of him, the other thrown wide out and bent at the knee, his foot on the coffee table in front. Now Arthur supposes his pose screams sullen youth. He also realises that though he might befeeling sullen, he's by no means a temperamental boy anymore and that he must not be cutting a fine figure here. That said, he supposes his attitude might well be annoying Morgana, so he persists with it without letting himself consider how ridiculous he must look. Maybe he'll chase her off by virtue of being downright obnoxious. It's a strategy that's been known to suceed here and there through the years. “Morgana, as honoured as I am by your presence, which is to say not at all, I'm still left wondering why you're here if it's not to have a perfectly acceptable cuppa at mine?”

Morgana turns her nose up at him until it wrinkles and pushes back her ponytail with a supercilious flick of her wrist. “I was trying to honour our familial bond.”

One of Arthur's eyebrows goes up. “Really?”

“As a matter of fact, yes,” Morgana says. “I wanted to invite you out to the chalet for Christmas.”

Arthur sighs and his sigh is a bit like a whine. “Morgana, I don't fancy flying over to Chamonix just so I can give in to fancy Christmas celebrations. I'd rather stay home.”

Morgana crosses her legs, her steel-capped stilettos shining in the morning light. They're a threat in and of itself and she knows it. “Arthur, I'm your sister; I'm inviting you over for the holidays. I know for a fact that you're not working till after the New Year and that you're alone.”

Arthur's mouth twitches; he doesn't even know himself if he's amused or cheesed off at the notion that Morgana knows that much about his private life. “Who snitched on me?”

Morgana blows on her nails like someone who's just landed their lucky number on the roulette would. “Nobody did.” 

Arthur knows for a fact that she's lying but doesn't point that out. Instead he listens grimly to what she has to say.

“Everybody knows that since you and Gwen broke up you've been twice shy about socialising.”

Arthur feels his muscles go stiff even though he's told himself a hundred times and more that he shouldn't undergo that kind of reaction. Such a long time has passed, almost a year now, that it's unwarranted. He's being ridiculous. Sentimental and pathetic. “That's preposterous, Morgana.”

“Arthur,” Morgana says, “a couple of drunken binges with Owain and Ranulph don't really count as socialising.”

“That's not all I've done over the past few months.”

“No, you're right,” Morgana says so sweetly he already knows she's ribbing him. “You've had a few embarrassing one night stands as well.”

“I didn't--” Arthur starts, only to be pre-empted by Morgana, who goes on to say, “Oh please, do you really think I live under a rock? Olaf's daughter? Uther heard of it, you can rest assured. Actually, Olaf rang Uther to complain about, and I quote, 'That heartless womaniser and heart breaker that is your son'.”

Arthur scoffs. It's easy. He doesn't care what Olaf thinks. It's none of his business and, whatever her father may think, Vivian's an adult. Besides, that definition doesn't really describe him.

“Uther knows about Owain, too, if you're in doubt,” Morgana says gleefully, having evidently guessed what Arthur's been thinking. She has some kind of sixth sense that way. “So he can correct Olaf as to how you're an equal opportunity heart-breaker.”

Arthur drums his fingers on the sofa's armrest. “I'm hardly that, Morgana. I'm twenty-six. Occasionally, I have urges.”

“Oh, believe me,” Morgana says. “I'm commending you on cutting down on the moping over Gwen thing you had going right up to a few months ago--”

“I thought Guinevere was your dear friend,” Arthur says acerbically. At times he's thought Morgana to have taken his and Gwen break-up worse than any person not directly concerned ever could. “I thought you of all people'd understand.”

Morgana leans forward, her eyes flashing. “She is and I do. I would have wanted nothing better than to call her my sister-in-law. But you're my brother and you can't think that watching you suffer like a dog was a nice experience.”

Arthur lifts both shoulders up and looks down, slapping his hand on his thigh. “Morgana--”

Once again Morgana doesn't let him bring a sentence to its natural conclusion. “But this, this one night stand act, isn't exactly you either. You have feelings and you end up caring about people you're intimate with. You don't move on easily. This sex without a heart thing is not you. I know that.”

“Why, thank you for the vote of confidence,” Arthur tells Morgana. “You don't know how much of a relief it is to hear you say I'm a good bloke after all and that you generally approve of my sexual habits but for the aberration they are now. ”

Morgana squints at him in a 'you're not having me on' way. “Oh, Just come over to Chamonix, Arthur. All my friends are coming. They're a nice bunch. Mithian is going to be there. You know her. So are Percival and Elena. You adore Elena, I'm positive.”

Arthur tries to picture a week spent in the chalet with a number of people he's called friends over the years and who wouldn't hesitate to pity him over what happened. Arthur doesn't take pity particularly well. He's self-aware enough to know that. That's been one of the reasons why he's cut down on the time spent with his friends after he and Guinevere failed to work out.

Besides, for a long while his feelings were too close to the surface and while he was in that emotional state he didn't want other people to see and understand how he was faring. Somehow, people always get him as if he's got his feelings written large and in neon letters across his forehead. That happens even though he tries hard, and twice as hard now, not to let them show.

Staying in that chalet isn't what he wants. Holiday cheer isn't what he wants either though he can appreciate the yearly Coca-cola ads for what they are. That's as far as his holiday spirit is going to go this year. Rubbing shoulders with ten to twelve people over a ten day period isn't advisable right now. Perhaps if he were one on one with Mithian or Elena, he would be able to cope. Spending his first stag Christmas after his relationship débâcle with a lot of people, all of whom are Morgana's friends and many of whom he doesn't have that much in common with, would just be like shooting himself in the foot.

There's only one possible conclusion to draw from those considerations. “Morgana, I'm going to celebrate Christmas at home.”

Morgana scans his flat with unflinching eyes. “I don't seen even the tiniest of decorations.”

“Not every adult is into drowning their living spaces in frill and tinsel just because 'tis the season',” Arthur says in a no-nonsense tone he believes is in his genes courtesy of Uther Pendragon.

“So what are you planning to do?” Morgana asks. “Watch the Doctor Who Christmas special while you binge on frozen pizza?”

Arthur takes his foot off the coffee table, leans his elbows on his thighs and squeezes the bridge of his nose. His shoulders rise the moment he expels a big rush of air. “Don't be so melodramatic, Morgana. I'm going to ring a friend. Get an invite somewhere.”

“So you're okay spending your holidays with some randoms,” she says, her eyebrows joining and her mouth going thin, “but you won't spend them with your own sister. We agreed on patching things up between us, after...” 

She trails off but they both understand. Arthur's heart does twinge with guilt at that, especially as he takes in her wounded expression. Before he knows it, he's reconsidering. Nobody's saying that he has to stay the whole week and into the New Year. He could pop by on the twenty-third and be gone by Boxing Day. If his friends poke and prod him about his personal life he can resort to either silence or withering glares. It isn't the best way to spend Christmas but he guesses that since he once promised to do his best by Morgana, he ought to keep that promise.

He's always prided himself on sticking to promises. It's a matter of loyalty and honour.

“There's going to be mulled wine, marons glacés and presents under the tree,” Morgana says. “I have yours already.” Her eyes glisten proudly as she says the last bit using a very cryptic tone.

Nettled by her tone if nothing else, Arthur claps his hands together and stands up in one sudden move.

Morgana leans back against the sofa, surprised at his impromptu move. She's looking out of her depth for the fist time since she came in. “Arthur?”

Arthur crosses his arms over his chest, sticks it out and says, “Save your breath. I'm coming.”

Morgana's expression morphs entirely. She goes from startlement and confusion to smiling what she knows to be an engaging smile. Satisfied grin still on, she roots in her bag, extracts a vinyl wallet out of its mysterious unplumbed depths, and rests it on the coffee table.

Arthur arches a questioning eyebrow.

“I took the liberty of booking you seats,” she says, toying with the end of her ponytail and not quite looking at him. “We all know how difficult it is to get cheap seats over Christmas.”

“Morgana!” Arthur grumps.


	2. Chapter 2

As his computer shuts down, Arthur rolls his swivel chair down the length of his office desk and snags the receiver. “Yes,” he barks into it. “No, it's all right,” he says when he hears his PA's penitent voice apologising for interrupting him. 

“I was wondering, sir, if you wanted me to call you a cab?”

“No,” Arthur says, placing a few folders in a drawer and locking it. “A friend's taking me to the airport. My sister made sure.”

“I see,” Drea says, pretending she hasn't cottoned on to Arthur's jab at his sister. “I took the liberty of renting you a four by four. You'll find it at Hertz' once you land in Geneva.”

Arthur smiles. “Well, thank you for your thoughtfulness, Drea.”

“That wasn't just me, sir,” Drea says, her voice dwindling to a whisper. “Ms Fay ordered me to. She said, 'So my brother will have no excuse.'”

Arthur sighs loudly and scratches the back of his head. “Yeah, I can see how that happened but you would do well to remember that you don't work for her and that you don't have to act on it when she orders you around." A little wounded, whining sound comes from Drea, so Arthur adds, "Thank you all the same, Drea. And Merry Christmas to you in case I don't hear from you before then.”

“Merry Christmas to you too, sir.”

After he's put the phone down, Arthur darts into the bathroom adjoining his office to change into clothes more comfortable for travelling. He leaves his suit trousers on – he doesn't care if Morgana gives him shit about his formality – and swaps his pale blue shirt for a chequered plaid one, which he tops with a cosy white cashmere jumper. Coat on, he leaves the building, though not before he's wished happy holidays to practically half the staff.

Pellinore's the friend driving him to the airport. Arthur finds him waiting for him, his sleek car shining under the weak drizzle patina. “Hello, Arthur,” he says, his elbow resting on the car roof. “What's with the long face? I thought you were going on holiday.”

Arthur throws his suitcase into the boot and eases himself into the passenger seat. “I'm visiting my sister. You know my sister.”

Pellinore swings his own door shut and starts the car. “Yeah, she can be stubborn, I know. But she's hot.”

Arthur mimes stopping his ears. “Don't want to hear that.”

“And I bet she's invited over some hot friends too, so I don't think you're going to have too hard a time of it down there. Or maybe... you're going to enjoy a hard--”

“Don't even finish that sentence,” Arthur tells Pellinore, looking out of his window as his mouth quivers in an the effort not to break into a smile. “And by the way I have no idea who she's invited. So no enticement there.” 

“I'm just saying you could be more of an optimist,” Pellinore says. “Glass half full and all that.”

Pellinore drops him at the airport an hour later. The VIP lounge is seasonably accoutred; the flight assistants polite. Babies are unfortunately and predictably loud just as VIP business class passengers are obnoxious, bandying their privileges left right and centre in a way that makes Arthur wish he could strangle them. They strangely remind Arthur of his father of all things. Same suit cut, same brandishing of high-tech gadgetry and same I-rule-the-world air.

The flight is uneventful. Arthur spends the two hours he's strapped to his seat listening to old rock classics and filling in a variety of puzzles. The flight is so uneventful that Arthur even gets irritated because he can't pin any discomfort down on Morgana when there's no discomfort to be had.

He understands how that makes no sense, but having the right to vent would have helped him feel better or more reasonable in his vexation. His hand was practically forced when he agreed to spend time with Morgana in holiday mode but he can't exactly say that a Chamonix holiday is a punishment. And he doesn't appreciate being made to feel as though he's the petulant one when Morgana put him in this position.

Having nothing to complain about can definitely be a cause of complaint. 

Despite that he's glad that he gets to pick his car up with no hindrances and that the car itself is fully equipped to face the micro snow storm that surprises him once he's well on the motorway. He even relaxes during the drive, enjoying it at sportsman level and letting himself prize the beauty and snow-capped glory of the mountains that loom not too far on the horizon.

The vista becomes even more scenic as he leaves the motorway for a mountain road that's lined with tall pines and other evergreens.

The one surrounding him would, truth be told, be a perfectly enticing winter landscape if the weather wasn't worsening. As it is, snow is banked high against the sides of the road and sheet ice covers the tarmac. In some spots snow topping a layer of ice is aptly concealing a series of evil potholes that threaten to do away with the four by four's ride control system.

Visibility is also lower. A flurry of snowflakes is whirling against the windscreen, wipers moving at the highest possible speed to bat away the icy patina and not fully succeeding. The road is a winding one too so he can't see what's at the end of it. As he climbs to higher ground mist seems to meet the low grey sky and shrink his vision range. In a bid for prudence he goes easy on the accelerator, slowing his navigation speed to 20 miles per hour.

It'll take him longer but fuck it, road safety first.

He's squinting at the road to make out what's ahead when he catches sight of a blurry figure moving along its sides. He slows down some more and can't believe his eyes when he realises that it's not an animal he's seeing but a person hitch-hiking – in this weather. Wonder of wonders; there the man is, his thumb pointing upwards, a rucksack that's seen better days draped loosely over his shoulders, his neck tucked into the collar of his puffy jacket.

When the hitch-hiker spots Arthur's car, he waggles his thumb more vehemently. 

Not being generally prone to giving lifts to strangers, Arthur considers leaving the crazed individual to stew where he is, right on the edge of the road if need be, but then he considers the weather, the man's solitary state and the fact that anything might happen to him – including freezing off in a ditch – and Arthur reconsiders.

When he gets level with the man, Arthur slows his car and lowers the window. “Are you crazy?” he says, looking at him. The hitch-hiker's lips are definitely veering towards displaying a bluish tinge, his cheeks are bitten red by the frosty air and the keen wind is tossing his hair forwards and across his forehead, practically blinding him. Arthur very nearly takes pity. “Do you have a secret death wish hitch-hiking during a snow storm?”

The hitch-hiker’s face creases into a toothy grin, dimples showing on both his reddened cheeks. He looks like a cross between Rudolph The Red Nosed Reindeer and an alluring, guilelessly naughty boy. “Believe me, mate,” he says, “you'd think I have a death wish if I wasn't hitch-hiking.”

Arthur doesn't even get what that means but in good conscience he can't leave the man stranded there. Normally, he wouldn't do this, but this idiot of a hitch-hiker doesn't look as though he's a serial killer, and though looks might be deceiving Arthur doesn't think he's wrong this time.

Shaking his head and grumbling a little, he leans over to open the passenger seat. “Come on, get in, quick.”

Breath clinging frigidly to the frosty air, the man says, “Thanks,” then smiles and settles into the car, icy crystals falling inwards in his wake. Mud pools at his feet and comes off in clumps on the hitherto pristine floor mat.

“Bloody hell, close the door,” Arthur screeches as he's hit by a wall of Polar wind.

The man does as he's told though he says, “Fussy.” 

Before Arthur can point out that it's not polite of him to criticise Arthur when Arthur's doing him a good turn, the man has spun around, smile undaunted, and proffered a gloved – Arthur can detect stylised snow-flake patterns woven across the wool – hand to him and introduces himself. “I'm Merlin, by the way.”

Because of Merlin's accompanying grin Arthur's irritation plunges to a lower simmer. In spite of that Arthur doesn't shake Merlin's hand in favour of putting the car back into gear. Hands steady on the wheel, he says, “Arthur.”

“Nice to meet you, Arthur.” 

And then they're back on the road proper, pushing towards higher ground, grey-black clouds rolling across the mountains in a way that would have been picturesque and magnificent if only they hadn't been in the middle of a storm. Arthur only hopes he can get where he needs to be fast enough to avoid the worst of it.

Eyes mostly on the road, Arthur sneaks desultory peeks at his passenger. From afar and with his frame silhouetted against the sombre sky, Arthur at first thought that the hitch-hiker was more than fairly young. 

Though the lankiness of Merlin's limbs would fit the mental image Arthur has of adolescents, it's quite certain that up close Merlin isn't one. Despite his taste in clothing – displayed by way of a big arse parka, muddy plimsolls unfit for this weather, and a colourful scarf no self-respecting adult would opt for – Merlin is no teenager.

He's got stubble and sharp features that have outgrown the roundness of adolescence. His face is a concentration of angles and spiky lines instead. It's not a mature face but the man's certainly passed the eighteen mark a few years ago. Arthur puts him in the early twenties bracket. If he were forced to make an educated guess, which he isn't, he'd say that Merlin's perhaps a couple of years younger than Arthur himself.

Though if you went by that messy bowl cut that Merlin's got going you wouldn't be able to tell that Merlin is, in fact, an adult. No, Arthur reflects, that hair cut isn't doing anything to make Merlin appear poised or grown-up. Quite the contrary; it gives him a restlessly boyish aura that would probably be difficult to shed without the help of a stylist. The hair cut fits him though, softening his features and highlighting those facial quirks of his, jug ears, bright eyes and a mouth that would make Arthur dream x-rated dreams if he allowed himself to, that wouldn't be as immediately noticeable without it. 

Briefly, Merlin sports a few degrees of hotness Arthur would love to ogle in other circumstances although, as things stand, Arthur refuses to go down that road. He's not considering the merits of an unknown hitch-hiker he's raked up in the middle of nowhere. Just no. Clinging to that thought, he clears his throat and says, “Where am I dropping you?”

“Oh,” Merlin says as if the sole act of climbing into Arthur's car had solved all his problems. “I need to get to a friend's. That is a friend of a friend's. She has a chalet between Chamonix and Les Houches? I have the address and all if you let me dig into my bag!” Merlin gives the rucksack that he's placed at his feet a kick. “But you can drop me anywhere on the road to it.”

Arthur has a terrible and sneaking suspicion. “Wait, does this friend of a friend have a name?”

Merlin rolls his eyes at him. “'Course she has a name. It's Morgana Fay. She's my friend Gwaine's--”

Arthur almost swerves the car into the opposite lane. “Morgana,” he says just as Merlin shouts, “Hey, watch out.”

Arthur regains full control of both his limbs and the car. “I've got it,” he says.

“Yeah, maybe I should have walked,” Merlin tells him, eyeing the door as though he wants to dive out of the rolling car. “Would have been safer. Why did you even do that?”

“It's just that--” Arthur starts and stops at a loss as to how to make his reactions clear. He feels completely silly admitting that he nearly crashed them because he was surprised by the strange laws of serendipity. Yet he doesn't think he has any other explanation to offer short of 'I'm a very bad driver'. Arthur isn't a bad driver. He's a damn good one. Wanting to preserve his driver pride, he says, “It's just that Morgana's my sister.” He pauses to specify, “My half sister. She's invited me over for the holidays. So I suppose she invited you too and that we're going the same way. Though that's strange.”

“What?” Merlin asks, lips quirked into a knowing grin. “Am I not posh enough for your sister?”

“No!” Arthur hurries to say even though if he has another look at Merlin he'll have to concede that Merlin doesn't fit in with Morgana's usual yuppie crowd. He totally doesn't. Arthur's not going to say that though; he's not about to dig himself into another deep, deep hole. He creditably lost his foot-in-mouth tendencies at some point mid secondary school. “It's just that, you know, what are the odds...”

Merlin studies him, looking not quite convinced and even less appeased, but then he shrugs the putative offence off. “Whatever,” he says. “And anyway you'd be right. I barely know Morgana. I've seen her socially once or twice in my entire life. The only reason I'm here at all is because she asked Gwaine over and he asked her if I could come too so he wouldn't be the only renegade.”

Arthur grunts. He knows Gwaine. “Isn't he my sister's good-for-nothing tennis instructor?”

“Hey,” Merlin protests albeit none too hotly, “Gwaine's a mean hand at tennis. He got as far as Wimbledon back in the day.”

Arthur turns his head to take in Merlin's proud expression. “Yeah,” Arthur says, “but what has he done since?” 

Merlin's bites on his lower lip, a shadow darkening his features even Arthur, who's only looking at him sideways and from time to time, can make out. “We're not all heirs to a fortune.”

Arthur doesn't know how he's managed to get himself into this one right on the heels of the social standing fiasco, but he tries to make amends. “Look, I wasn't trying to diss Gwaine but you'll have to admit that he isn't exactly the hard-working, go-getter type. If he wasn't good-looking...”

“He's a good guy,” is all Merlin's says. Arthur takes it as acknowledgement that Merlin thinks of Gwaine the same way Arthur does, only he can't come out and say it because he's loyal to his friends.

Arthur can respect that so he changes the subject. “So if Gwaine asked you to tag along how come you're not with him?”

“He flew in yesterday?” Merlin says in the tone of someone who's not a hundred per cent sure of his having the correct info. “Or maybe the day before. And I simply couldn't. Was working. So I made it when I could.”

“And you couldn't rent a car?” Arthur asks, patting the dashboard to indicate that's what he himself has done. 

Merlin worries his bottom lip again, fluffing it into plumpness and giving Arthur stupid, stupid ideas. “Have you had a look at the rental prices?” he asks and Arthur, for whom money's no object, doesn't press the subject.

The rest of the drive passes quietly. Merlin chatters a bit but it's mainly small talk. Arthur responds in the same vein until at last they come in sight of Morgana's chalet.

Arthur parks the four by four under a pine and jumps out of the car. 

Probably alerted by the engine's rumble, Morgana appears on the deck balcony. “Hello, Arthur,” she says, leaning her elbows on the wooden rail, “glad to see you're not hiding away in London. I thought you entirely capable of standing me up.”

Merlin trips out of the car, straightening up quite fast all the same.

“And Merlin!” Morgana squeals. “I didn't expect you to spill out of Arthur's car or for you to know him at all.”

“I don't. Didn't. I hitch-hiked;” Merlin says, rubbing shyly at his scalp. “And as luck would have it Arthur and I were headed the same way.”

Morgana descends the stairs that go from the balcony down to the lower level of the house where the entrance is. “Well, I'm glad. Gwaine was wondering where you'd ended up. The poor man was quite concerned,” she adds, accompanying her seemingly innocent statement with a wink. “He was contemplating siccing a horde of San Bernards carrying tiny whisky flasks on their collars on you. Just in case you were freezing to death like Ötzi The Iceman.”

Merlin shifts his weight while Morgana tramps over to him. “Er, it wasn't such a dire situation.”

Arthur gets his suitcase out of the boot and dumps it at his feet. “No,” Arthur says, “total body frostbite was at least more than half an hour away.”

Merlin's head snaps towards him. “It's not that cold. And I have a beanie in my rucksack.” 

“As if that would have helped,” Arthur says.

“It would have.”

“I bet not.”

“Boys,” Morgana says, “why don't you come inside and have your my dick is bigger contest in front of the fireplace?”

They both splutter, get pink-cheeked, more than the cold warrants anyway, and follow Morgana into the house.

The shock of warmth the interior supplies is quite pleasant, Arthur, whose nose was starting to feel like an appendage not appertaining to his face, owns.

As soon as they're in, they're surrounded by Morgana's other guests; Morgause, a dark-haired man Morgause seems cosy with, Percival, Elena, Mithian and Gwaine are there. Gwaine makes a beeline for Merlin and lifts him off his feet as though Merlin's a long lost friend he hasn't clapped eyes on in ten years. Forcibly backslapping him, he says, “Merlin, I thought you were lost to us...”

“Idiot,” Merlin says warmly. "I was getting here. It's not as if I didn't text you this morning."

Then the rounds of greetings and introductions start. Arthur knows most everyone but Morgause's plus one (Cenred apparently). Merlin knows no one but Gwaine and Morgana. Hands are shaken. Backs are clapped. Arthur gets kissed on the cheek by the girls, however not by Morgause. ( Because God help the woman should she display any hint of human emotion.)

While the company drags Merlin over to the sofa facing the fireplace, Arthur climbs the stairs and claims his usual room. Since it's empty of any sign of occupation, Arthur takes it for granted that Morgana's reserved it for him. Staking more of a claim just to be sure, he leaves his toiletries in the bathroom and his suitcase on the bed. 

Next he drops the contents of his pockets – mobile, spare change, gloves – onto the dresser. By doing so realises that he's left the car keys in the lock. 

Bloody Merlin; if he hadn't distracted Arthur with his prattle, Arthur wouldn't have forgotten such an important item. He's not keen or reporting the theft of a vehicle he's just rented even though he doesn't think it probable that a car thief would climb all the way up here in order to get his hands on his car. 

Ski runs are only a stone's throw away and car-jackers would be better served cherry-picking the pricey cars stationed along the streets of Chamonix proper. If they went looking there, they'd get their goods without freezing their balls off. Even so Arthur's always maintained that the better safe than sorry maxim is a good one.

Ghosting past the downstairs living room where everybody's gathered, he makes it to the door. He's halfway to his rented Land Rover when he zooms in on a Toyota Runner clambering up the path leading to the chalet. The moment it slows to a halt he recognises driver and passengers. 

Behind the wheel sits Leon, sporting the same sober air as last year. Next to him is Gwen. Behind them in the back seats are Elyan and a girl Arthur doesn't know from Adam.

As the group gets out of the car, Arthur feels his legs go weak and his heart double thump in his chest. When Gwen hooks her arm under Leon's, it's like a year hasn't passed at all. And when she sees him looking, Arthur wishes he had stayed at home and never taken that plane out. It would have been far better to drown his sorrows in stupid outings and listless sameness than to be faced with this.

His own biggest failure.

He makes sure his face betrays nothing, schools it to hardness, even as he hisses, “Morgana!”


	3. Chapter 3

Arthur slams his door with a bang, not caring one jot what the others are going to think. He stomps into the bathroom, grabs his toiletries bag and shoves it back into his suitcase. He's stuffing his pockets with the personal items he left on the dresser when Morgana charges into the room. “That was rude.”

Arthur whips his head up. “No, what _you_ did was rude.”

Morgana puts her hands on her hips. “You didn't even stop to say hi to her. You just clomp in here, bang your door as if you're twelve and cut a scene everybody out there's now wondering about.”

Arthur thrusts his mobile in his back pocket with enough fury to tear a hole in it. “Oh, please,” he says, an angry twist to his lips he can't stop from forming. “Don't equivocate. You lied to me and now you're trying to make it look as though I'm the one having a fit.”

“I never lied,” says Morgana, pointing her foot as if she's about to tap it to make a point.

“I don't believe you,” Arthur says, moving to the bed to secure the lock on his suitcase. “And, no, you didn't lie. You just didn't give me any relevant piece of information that would help me shape my decision to come here.”

Morgana deflates, hands dropping to her sides, shoulders not quite slumping – she never slouches, having the best posture he's ever seen – but curving forwards. “What was I supposed to tell you?” she asks, much more sweetly than he would have thought possible for her. Morgana can display a varied range of feelings. Sweetness, though, is rare to come by when she's concerned. “That I'd invited her and Leon? You wouldn't have come.”

Morgana's tone makes Arthur stop in his tracks. She's being kind but he's really failing to grasp how she could have thought this was a good idea. “Of course I wouldn't have come.”

Morgana takes a step towards him and puts a hand on his shoulder. “But I wanted you here.” She smiles a wobbly smile she hasn't been exactly known for. Usually her smiles exude confidence and allure. This one doesn't. “And I wanted her here. She's still my best friend.”

Arthur takes a deep breath, the oxygen saturation making him feel light-headed. “I'm not saying you shouldn't be friends.” He might have wanted Morgana to side with him in all things and take a stand for him and against others even if it's unreasonable, but he's not so petty as to require that of her. “But you should have told me.”

Morgana sniffs. “I know. Sorry. I just thought that enough time had passed and that you would be able to rise above being dumped.” 

Arthur holds his head right up, jaw jutting. “I can rise above it.”

Morgana walks into his arms and hugs him, putting her chin on his shoulder. “Then do. We're all adults here.”

“It's not a question of being adults.”

“But it is,” Morgana says. “Things like you and Gwen breaking up happen all the time. I'd have thought you mature enough to be able to be in the same room with her.”

“I am,” he says. His lip wants to stick out but he reins it in. “It's just going to be uncomfortable.” And painful and harrowing and unbearable. 

“I have presents for you,” she says, “and I'm sure there's a couple of people out there who would miss you if you left.”

Arthur pats Morgana's back. “I--”

She steps back and looks him in the eye. “It's going to be a cosy family Christmas,” Morgana tells him. “Don't let me down, Arthur.”

Arthur wets his lips, looks to the door, expels a whoosh of air, and says, “I won't.”

Arthur is a Pendragon and he has more self-control than Morgana thinks. He's going to prove that. He'll rise above everything and prove to everyone that he's made of sterner stuff than they can dream of.

“You don't have to join us right now,” Morgana says, toying with the label the airline put on his luggage. “I'll tell the others you're settling in, having a nap, or something. Just be there for dinner.”

Arthur nods his head and watches Morgana retreat. When she's gone, he throws himself on the bed next to his suitcase, hands clasped on his stomach, eyes to the ceiling. It's just a few days, he tells himself. He can cope for a few days.

When Arthur re-emerges two hours later, it's pitch dark outside. His friends are buzzing to and fro like busy ants though they're observing a specific pattern. They're going from the kitchen to the living room and back. When he zeroes in on Mithian bearing a bread basket, it becomes clear that they're laying the table.

He can't see Gwen, but Leon's lighting the candles dotting the table while Elyan cracks jokes with him. The happy future in laws, Arthur thinks, mouth setting grimly. 

Morgause and Cenred are pretending to be straightening out some of the cutlery but in reality Cenred has his hands on her hips and his nose buried in her neck, so Arthur doesn't think the mise-en-place will be as perfect as Morgana wishes. 

Not minding them at all, Elyan's girl is setting signposts perpendicularly to every dish.

Elena, meanwhile, is holding a handful of odd-looking forks in a bunch, looking at them as though she's not sure where they should go. Arthur guesses she usually leaves these things to the family butler and that's why she's so lost in contemplation. 

As for Merlin, he must have managed to get cosy with Morgana, for he's already been assigned a task even if, of all the guests, he's the one with the most tenuous connection to her. He must have a winning personality for Morgana is not one to entrust her possessions to strangers easily. It's a well known fact that nobody fucks with Morgana's domestic appliances. At the moment Merlin is going round the table, placing festive red napkins to the right of the bowls someone has set next to each place.

He's grinning at the way they're decorated: leaping Santas, seasonal wreaths, and packed sleighs. Arthur empathises.

Gwaine, the slob, is stealing pickled olives and cashews from the tiny bowls set centre table, chewing loudly and with gusto. “Mmmm,” he says, “I have to give it to Morgana. She knows how to organise dinner parties.”

“Gwaine,” Merlin says, once he's finished with his napkin round, “are you sure you ought to be filching the food?”

Gwaine smacks his lips together, unapologetic. “I was noshing on the appetisers, Merlin. That's allowed.”

Merlin snorts, his lips quirked sideways. “Well, I'd better bring in some more then or there will be nothing left by the time the mains are served.”

Gwaine mimics being shot to the heart, complete with chair slump, and Merlin waltzes off to the kitchen, suppressing a snicker.

That's when Arthur makes a small noise to signal that he's there. “Hi there, everyone,” he says.

At that Elena dunks her cutlery handful to go dash into his arms. She circles her arms around his middle and tries to place her head on his chest even though she's nearly as tall as him. “Arthur,” she says, “I'm so happy you didn't leave because you didn't know Gwen was here.”

Just as the last word leaves Elena's mouth, Gwen walks in, a vase full of flowers in her hands. She stops. He freezes. They exchange glances and head nods, Leon absorbing this, and then Gwen continues on her course and Arthur hugs Elena to him. “I'm happy to see you, Duck.”

“You weren't at my last competition,” she says, not letting go of him yet and treating him like a giant teddy bear. “Argo and I won.”

“I was sure you would,” Arthur says as they separate. “I remember your trophy collection. You're an unbeatable duo.”

As Arthur and Elena go over a summarised account of her dressage wins, Morgana and Merlin walk back into the living room area, carrying two separate earthenware pots. They have mittens over their hands and look as though they're looking fowards to dipping in. As they adavance, pleasantly aromatic fumes curl upwards from the rim of the pots. That'd make Arthur hungry if he wasn't too unsettled to eat.

Despite his greedy for food grin, Merlin's watching his step so carefully Arthur anticipates disaster. Nothing happens however and Morgana can proudly say, “I made fondue!”

Gwaine says, “Good. I hope there's enough for everybody because I'm claiming at least two portions.”

“Of course,” says Morgana as she places the fondue pot on the table. “I have the gift of foresight that way so I made lots.”

With the food drawing them in, they all take their place at the table, crowding in from different angles.

Arthur finds he's been assigned a seat next to Gwen and can't help but shoot a murderous look at Morgana. He's mature enough, however, to smile and act as though nothing's happened. He's successfully fooling all and sundry, for nobody pays attention to him.

While he has Gwen to his left, his got Elyan's SO to his right. He'll have to engage her in small talk to escape having a stilted, we're-exes conversation with Gwen. Across from him are Merlin and Gwaine and Arthur despairs at the placement. Knowing Gwaine, Arthur hopes that Gwaine won't eat with his mouth open much. He has recollection of it happening before and it's disgusting.

Morgana, of course, sits at the head of the long rectangular table while her pal, Morgause, faces her at the other end. In between them Elena, Mithian, and Percival are placed.

“So,” Morgana says, waving her hands at the pots. “Tuck in, people.”

“Only if you tell me that Gwen made it,” Elyan says before he turns to his SO to say, “My sister's an excellent cook.”

Morgana raises an eyebrow. “I'll have you know I'm pretty good myself.” She lets her features soften. “But you can rest assured the incomparable Guinevere made the fondue.”

“And we're all grateful to her,” Leon says, resting his hand on top of Gwen's as he says, “I know I am, love.”

Arthur tears his eyes away from them to meet Merlin's across the table. Merlin studies him for a moment and then ducks his head, toying with the napkin he himself arranged there. He shapes it into a crane under Arthur's eyes and that diversion alone convinces Arthur that Merlin's fathomed it. That he's guessed about him and Gwen. That should make meeting Merlin's eyes in future hard, but Arthur doesn't find himself wanting to avoid his gaze or his knowledge. Perhaps that's because Merlin, unlike Morgana, is being subtle about his powers of deduction. He's being understanding and non-invasive. At the end of the day, Arthur's all right with Merlin knowing for as long as Merlin doesn't mention a thing.

Nobody else notices the momentary awkwardness; Leon's rapid, stilted cough and Gwen's shifting in her seat go unobserved. It's late enough for everybody's stomachs to be clamouring for dinner rather than a serving of gossip.

They all start eating. Cubed bread placed on a side dish is speared and dipped into the sauce served in the communal pots. Some of Morgana's guests are very respectful of etiquette as they go about dipping their cubes in before bringing them to their mouths, free hands cupped under the fork so they won't spill. Others are less careful about the way they eat. 

Gwaine leaves fondue stains on the table cloth while Elena is an unmitigated disaster, dropping her cubes and spilling cheese all over her chin. Not content, she pokes at the strands sticking to the tines with her fingers then either twists them around her tongue or licks them off. But unlike Gwaine, whom Arthur's suspecting of making his 'revolutionary, proud commoner' stand, she's not doing it to prove a point; she's just clumsy and self-conscious about it but also very willing to poke fun at herself. “Oh my,” she says. “You'd think I was five.”

Everybody laughs, Arthur included. Elena's always made Arthur's heart glad that way.

Merlin, across from him, is very graceful about his fondue eating technique. Long, tapered fingers close around the fork's handle, which he wisely uses to slide the cheese-covered bread onto his plate. He's good at wrangling cheese filaments and his tongue only occasionally pokes out to lick up melted cheese strands, to the point Arthur suspects him of being a fondue lover. It's also hot but Arthur forces the notion away,

Wine is passed around and soon they're all mellow enough and full enough for conversation, which did undergo a lull when Morgana brought out the fondue, to start again. 

“So,” Morgause kicks it off, “we all know each other, but we don't know you, Merlin.”

Merlin lifts his head. Transferring the fork from hand to hand, he says, “Who, me?”

“Yes, you, Merlin,” Morgause says, swishing the wine in her glass. “Tell us something about you. What do you do? Where do you live? Things like that.”

Morgause sounds perilously close to a father interrogating his child's significant other about their future prospects. Merlin is quick to get that, Arthur knows, for his fingers tighten around his fork. “I, um, am a cross between a research assistant and a PA.”

Morgause puts her glass down and her elbow on the table. She leans on it, drawing patterns on the table cloth with her free-hand. Her eyes are narrowed down to predatory slits when she says, “I'm not sure I understand what it is that you do.”

Arthur's fingers clench tight around the stem of his glass. Talk about holiday cheer. “Morgause.”

Morgause shrugs his reprimand off while Merlin flashes him a grateful smile Arthur finds lovely. “It's all right,” Merlin says. “Perhaps what I said was confusing. I shouldn't have free rein with the alcohol.” He mock glares at his half-full glass. “But to clear it all up, I do some on-the-side research for an author who hired me for that purpose. On top of that I make sure she doesn't miss her appointments. Social engaments, her book readings and stuff.”

“Doesn't this author of yours have an agent?” Cenred asks with a snort.

“Yes,” Merlin says. “She does. But she's busy. And her having an agent doesn't mean she'll remember every little appointment she's got scheduled without me.”

Morgause makes a face and tells Cenred, “I wonder what kind of an author is that forgetful.”

Cenred makes a noise in agreement, leaning back in his chair and emptying his glass. “Yeah, I wonder too. Who is this author of yours, Merlin, if you don't mind?”

Merlin looks like the stag Arthur's father cornered in 2007 when he was on a hunting trip. “Finna McLachlan. She's known for the--”

Mithian jumps in on the conversation, eyes sparkling with enthusiasm. She's a step away from clapping her hands together like a child. “The Sign of the Dragon trilogy. I adore it.”

“Oh,” Elena joins is, flipping a hand about in her excitement. “The third one is one of my favourite books. I sometimes read bits of it to Argo after I've groomed him.” 

“Yeah, she's that good,” Mithian says, then turning to Arthur, she adds, “I gave you one of her books for your birthday two years ago.”

Merlin's gaze falls expectantly to him. His eyes are bright and sparkling; he's really hoping to hear good things about his employer. Arthur regrets telling the truth. “I'm not into fantasy, I'm afraid. Fantasy is for kids.”

Merlin's jaw tightens a little. “There's more to fantasy than you might think.”

“I'm sure,” Arthur says, not wanting to antagonise Merlin after Morgause has succeeded so well. “But still.”

“Still what?” Merlin says. “It's a sub par genre?”

“I didn't say that.”

“No, yours was the polite version of that.”

Arthur chuckles, caught out. Merlin is more intuitive than Arthur would have thought. “All right, yeah, that's true. I was trying to be nice.”

“You weren't particularly,” Merlin observes.

Arthur raises his glass to him. “Touché”

“Merlin should be flattered he even tried,” Percival says, “Arthur's always so direct he generally offends people. Though you've got to give it to him, he's not afraid to blurt out his opinion. Even if you're twice as big and tower over him. He'll speak his mind. That's actually how we met.”

Elyan's girlfriend, whose name Arthur finally catches (Niniane), begs for the particulars, so Percival launches into the story of their first meeting, which entailed a budding bar brawl.

“So that's Arthur for you,” Percival says.

“I never heard that story before,” Gwen says. It's clear she said it just so she could be included in the conversation but Arthur feels petty and uncharitable enough to say, “You don't know everything about me.”

That's a conversation killer. Gwen purses her mouth; Leon slings his arm over Gwen's shoulder and rubs there. Morgana glares and Elyan looks daggers at him. 

The mood stays that way until liqueur chocolates are distributed and somebody, possibly Mithian, suggests they sing carols by Morgana's Christmas tree.

They all move over to it but for Arthur, who stands in the periphery, glass of port in hand for something to cling to. 

He watches as Morgana busts out her old guitar and as Gwaine, who's just set his hands on Merlin's shoulders, announces to the roomful of people that Merlin is a great pianist.

“No, that's not true,” Merlin says, cheeks pinking. “I can only strum along.”

“Can you play _God Rest You, Merry Gentlemen?_ ” Elena asks, plaintively. “Please, please.” She sticks her lower lip out. “It's my fave Christmas song.”

“Yeah,” Merlin says, “I sort of can.”

“Then that's decided,” Gwaine says, as he drags Merlin over to the piano bench. “Merlin's playing. First request goes to Elena. The second one is granted to yours truly: _All I Want for Christmas is You_." He hip nudges Merlin, who nearly goes down in a human tangle of limbs he was so surprised by the move. "Mithian here can accompany you on the guitar and sing. She's got the voice of an angel.”

Merlin protests but then he raises the piano cover, relaxes and starts running his fingers over the keys, testing the sound level and making sure the instrument’s tuned.

Not wanting to have his eardrums assaulted by the music produced by an amateur player, Arthur drifts into the kitchen. He's putting away the left-overs when the music starts to waft over. It's good. It's really good. Merlin lied; he's nearly at professional level. The notes entice him, soft and rhythmic, and never hesitant. Merlin's is a sweet wild out-pour of harmony. There's heart in the performance and Arthur finds himself ambling back in the open plan living room to eavesdrop.

He sticks to a corner, not mingling with the others, rather leaning against the wall with his arms crossed. He may have isolated himself, but he's close enough to study Merlin: his bent head, the fringe he's got brushed forwards, the flex of his fingers over the keys, the secretive, private smile on his lips that Arthur wants to suss out, penetrate and keep to himself.

He stares as Merlin strokes the keys with dedication. A smile glides across his lips. There's a tug in his belly, a feeling of near contentment he doesn't probe because today's been a fucked-up day and he doesn't want to question this moment of peace, but that he lets himself enjoy. He listens some more, then sighs and pushes off the wall.

Now that he's got more of a hold of himself, that he's more at peace, he can call it a night. He retreats, undisturbed and unheeded, to his room.

He's lying on his bed in his boxers, reading, _Genghis Khan and the Making of the Modern World_ , when there's an indecisive knock on his door.

Thinking it's Morgana, he pads over to it whilst mumbling choice insults under his breath. Still muttering, he yanks the door open with too much force, ready to rant at Morgana, but finds Gwen standing there.

Gwen hesitates, rakes her eyes over his bare torso, cups her mouth, but then shakes her head, ringlets bouncing of her shoulders, and says, “Can I talk to you for a minute?”

Arthur swallows, looks past Gwen for traces of Leon, then nods and steps back, inviting her in.

He sits on the bed, feet buried in the fleecy rug covering the floorboards, head down. “What is it, Guinevere?”

“I want you to know that I never wanted to make you uncomfortable,” she says, wringing her hands. “Morgana said you were over it. I trusted her or I would never have come, even though I wanted to see her with all my heart.”

“She's your friend,” Arthur's says, echoing Morgana's words. He doesn't particularly want to quote her and make her right, but he's got nothing else to say. Right now he doesn't think he has the brain power to come up with any words that would express what he's feeling anyway. He's not sure he can pin his feelings down or recognise them for what they are.

“Yes,” Gwen says, the frantic movement of her hands never ceasing. “She is. And I love her dearly. But if my presence here is hurting you--”

He cuts her off. “What hurt me was you choosing Leon over me.”

Her chin snaps up at his words, a shocked moue flickering across her face. “Arthur,” Gwen says, eyes flashing. “I never chose him over you. We weren't working out.”

“It was Christmas.”

Gwen shakes her head, a wry twist to her mouth. “Should I have waited until after Christmas? Should I have lied into the new year?”

“No, I--”

“Arthur.” She kneels at his feet and takes his hand in both hers. “We weren't that great of a couple. You're a lovely, lovely man. And I love you, but we weren't making each other happy, were we?” Her raised eyebrow is prompting agreement.

Arthur looks up from under his fringe, takes in her earnest expression, wide eyes, and flaring nose. Then he stares down at their joined hands. “I did my best.”

“Yes, you did,” she says with the vehemence he used to love her for. “Yes. You're a good man and you did what you could. But that's it. You were on your best behaviour all the time. That wasn't you with me. It was... another Arthur.” She fetches a sigh. “Even Perce knows that.”

“Gwen, I--”

Gwen squeezes his hand; there's strength and gentleness to the action, a strange mix that defines Gwen to the core. “I never set out to hurt you. And if I did I apologise. Leon and I... We've known each other since we were kids. He's himself with me.”

A year ago Arthur would have said, 'I can be that too. I can try'. Tonight, he can't quite bring himself to. It's not that the fight's gone out of him or that he doesn't look back on what he and Gwen had with regret. It's that he understands what Gwen's trying to say. It's that she's hit on something there. He finds he doesn't want to retread his steps. It's over. It's still a bitter pill to swallow but he can accept her stance. He doesn't want not to. “I see,” Arthur says with a self-deprecating grin. “Though hearing you sing another man's praises isn't--”

“That wasn't it and you know it,” Gwen says, tipping his head up so he can search her eyes for honesty. He can read that honesty in her; always could, and it's leaping at him now. It’s right there in the slant of her eyes, their light, the banked fire in them. Even though she's looking at him ruefully, as though she's afraid to wound him, she makes sure he can see how earnest she's being. “And don't let anybody tell you you're not a wonderful person. You are. We tried it. We gave it our best shot. It was good for a while when it wasn't...”

“So hard,” Arthur supplies.

“When it wasn't so hard,” Gwen says. “But now it's all right. We've moved on.”

If he was feeling as vindictive as he was a few weeks ago, Arthur would have said, 'you did. I didn't. Your decision.' But he doesn't. “Yeah. True.”

“Now can we get along?” She hints at a smile.

Arthur draws in a breath. “Yeah,” he says. “Yeah. I... I want to. We should be friends.” It won't happen today, but he believes they can start working towards that.

“Good,” Gwen says. “You'll never not be dear to me.”

She hugs him quickly, then rises and makes for the door. A second too late Arthur recollects himself and picks himself up in an effort to escort her to it. It's all for nothing. She's already slipped out and rounded the corner to the stairs.

That's when Morgana glides past, giving him an odd smirk and a thumb up sign.


	4. Chapter 4

The sun hitting him full in the face wakes him. Its rays coat his face pleasantly enough to render the waking process as painless as possible, considering the fact that he doesn't feel as though he's slept enough even though it's so bright in his room there's no doubt it's late in the morning. He fell asleep pretty late the night before, his book forgotten, thoughts whirling and churning in his brain until it shut down. The talk with Gwen had done him good but he still spent most of the preceding night going over what had been said, emotions close to the surface until they dimmed the drowsier he became.

Yawning and stretching, toes curling under the duvet, Arthur scrubs a hand down his face. 

Going by the way the sun's shining into his room the day greeting him is a beautiful, clear, cloudless day. He oughtn't brood and sulk. The time has come for him to have a more positive outlook. All in all he's got it good. It's cosy in here, the morning air smells richly of pine even though the window's closed against the cold and Arthur guesses he could have woken in a much worse environment that this. Maybe this holiday wouldn’t be so bad.

The house is quiet, no noises shaking up the calm of the place, so he lingers in bed for a while yet, the blankets around him trapping warmth and making a nice cocoon of his bedding.

His stomach grumbling convinces him to go and seek out breakfast. For conveniences' sake -- there might be others around -- he pulls a tee over his boxers and stumps into the kitchen. 

At the counter stands Merlin, a bowl of what must be cereal sitting next to his elbow; a plate on which bread is piled up and a glass filled to brim with orange juice are placed right next to it. Unlike Arthur he's wearing joggers bottoms, a long sleeved shirt with a big penguin design patterned across his chest, and thick, sturdy fleece socks. 

As Merlin munches on his breakfast, cereal crunching under his teeth, Arthur toddles sleepily into the kitchen area proper. “Morning,” he says, forking his hand through his hair. 

Merlin, who must have thought he was alone, gulps his mouthful quickly, gargles, fists his chest, chugs down nearly all the orange juice and says, “Hi, I was--” He waves his hand at the bowl. “Having breakfast.”

Not listening too closely to Merlin's surprised declaration of intent, Arthur pokes his head in the fridge and sights the components of his future breakfast: eggs, butter, and salami slices. “No need to choke to hurry and say that.”

Merlin nods and smooths down his tee. “Yeah, sorry. I was trying to be polite. 'am the guest.”

Arthur pulls the carton of eggs, the salami, and a chunk of butter out of the fridge and hugs the items close to his chest before safely resting them on the counter. Success, sleepiness notwithstanding he hasn't dropped anything and made a mess. “I see.”

“Besides,” Merlin says, dipping his spoon in his cereal, “you startled me. I thought I was alone.”

Arthur goes scouting for a pan. “What do you mean alone? Where are the others?”

Merlin clanks his spoon in his cereal bowl. “Um, gone skiing.”

Arthur finds the pan in the drainer, thinking 'Eureka' to himself. Whatever Morgana may say he's quite competent at domestic chores. Also is stomach is now seriously rumbling so he can't but be happy to have found the wherewithal to fix himself a meal. Breakfast is the most important one of the day; even scientists says so. “Why didn't you go with?”

Merlin scoops up a spoonful of cereal. “Because they went skiing.”

Whistling one of the carols from yesterday, Arthur chops off a slice of butter. “Question still stands.”

Chewing on his cereal before swallowing, Merlin says, “I can't ski. There was no point in going.”

After having dropped the butter in the pan, Arthur cracks the eggs over it and randomly dumps salami slices on top of the thin egg film already forming. “And they all left you behind?”

“Not their fault,” Merlin says. “They all were so eager to go I really didn't want to put a downer on their day.” Scratching absently at his chin, head turned to the side, Merlin adds, “Gwaine did try and stick with me but I told him to go. He can be a bit... intense where I'm concerned and Morgana's egging him on.”

“Uh.”

The butter sizzles, bubbles, and goes to a dark brown so quickly, sticking to the pan and releasing a less than nice odour, that Arthur starts despairing of his breakfast.

“Oh God, you're burning your eggs,” Merlin yells, taking the pan off the fire. He dunks the contents in the rubbish bin and the sticky pan in the sink. “What were you even trying to do?”

“An omelette?” Arthur says. “I did come close.”

Merlin chuckles. “Eh... No. Not unless you're partial to eating charred eggs.”

Normally, Arthur would have felt irked at the condemnation of his culinary skills, especially since he'd been doing so well before things got out of hand, but he can't get angry at Merlin's silly, funny faces. He's goggling, gaping, waggling his eyebrows, Yoda-like frown lines appearing on his forehead. He's not putting Arthur down; just laughing at his eggs. “If you hadn't been so quick to throw them away, maybe they could have been salvaged,” Arthur just says to make a point. “If you'd cut off the blackened bits--”

“If you're keen to get food poisoning...”

Arthur folds his arms over his chest. “And I suppose you can do better, Jamie Oliver.”

“You offend me,” Merlin says. “I thought you'd at least compare me to Nigella.”

Arthur snorts. “Lacking in some quarters.”

“But seriously even though you can't stretch my skills that far, I can pull off an omelette.”

Arthur swipes his arm at the range in a you-go-first gesture. “Now you'll just have to prove it.”

Merlin's eyes crinkle at the corners. “Challenge accepted. And just so you know, if you want an omelette you should whisk your eggs first.”

Arthur watches Merlin do just that. He isn't doing it expertly, getting tiny egg shell pieces in the batter, but he's getting the job done, blending the egg yolks and whites sapiently enough and seasoning as he goes. Before long, he's got the beginnings of an omelette going, a nice smell filling the kitchen, and he's busy tilting the pan backwards and forwards, pulling at the omelette’s edges so that the egg batter can travel around and spread evenly. One more minute and Merlin's taken the pan to a warm plate and tipped the omelette on to a plate. 

Arthur's mouth watering already when Merlin pushes the plate towards him to reveal a lovely omelette, its surface perfectly golden. “There you go,” Merlin says. “Your breakfast, my lord.”

In a mood to test Merlin's offering, Arthur digs his fork into the omelette to find that it's soft and squidgy on the inside. So far Merlin's concoction smells good and looks good. Arthur hopes it tastes equally good. Dishes have been known to look delicious and be less than palatable, Morgana's concoctions a case in point. “Moment of truth,” Arthur says, lifting a bite to his mouth.

Glancing at him with a faint frown, Merlin looks expectantly at Arthur, clearly waiting for his opinion on his contribution to Arthur's breakfast, a contribution that is the sole element actually making up Arthur's breakfast. A little critically Arthur munches on, careful not to pass judjement too soon. He lets the taste flood his mouth first, and only then does he smile and moan obscenely. 

Merlin's frown dissolves and he barks a laugh. “By the sounds of it you'd think I'd just given you an orgasm.”

Unexpectedly, heat crawls to Arthur's face though he does manage to spit out a blasé, “Not quite.”

Even so after that one-liner, Arthur can't quite focus on his food. He still punches at the omelette with his fork and eats it methodically because he's calorie starved, but he feels impelled to check on Merlin from time to time. So he directs surreptitious, out-of-the-corners-of-his-eyes glances at him as often as he can.

Merlin is grinning at him with a gleam in his own eyes, stubble on his jaw, hair standing up on end in a way that suggests he's just tumbled out of bed, or been fucked into next week. (Since Merlin's mostly new to the company Arthur surmises that's not true). That's still a compelling sight. There's something to Merlin that has Arthur wanting to look.

Not that he means anything by it. Why would he? It's just that Merlin's easy going grin and apparent sense of humour are engaging. Especially when no one else is around to compare those qualities to.

Full, Arthur scrapes up the last bits of egg off his plate and pushes it away. “I could teach you,” he says.

Merlin's, who's been leaning against the counter watching Arthur eat, goes blank for a moment, then says, “Teach me what?”

“How to ski,” Arthur says, “so you don't have to be left behind.”

Merlin frowns. “But I don't have the gear, can't afford it and I don't think you can learn in a day. I'll just--” He looks downwards. “Faff about. Read a book. Watch cable telly.”

“Apart from boots and skis, I can lend you the gear.” Arthur sizes Merlin up and tries to make an impartial assessment of him. Merlin's lean and the span of his hips is minimal. But he has broad shoulders and he's even got an inch on Arthur. Ski clothes are made to be bigger so you can wear your thermals underneath. Nobody will notice if the ones he lends Merlin are a bit loose at the waist. “We're not a hundred per cent the same size but unless you want a perfect fit I think we're okay. We can rent the rest.”

“But... I'm not quick on the uptake,” Merlin says in one big gush of breath that makes his words sound like a stolen confession. “Especially at sports. I'm bad at sports. Well, I'm an okay swimmer, but I guess If I swam around here I'd turn into an icicle.” The moment he realises he's been babbling Merlin claps both hands to his mouth, his eyes going round.

Arthur croaks out a laugh but when Merlin goes pink he takes pity and says, “You can't learn in a day, but I happen to be quite proficient at skiing so I can probably teach you the basics in a day.”

“I'm going to die, aren't I?” Merlin deadpans, bringing another smile to Arthur's face. “I'm going to end up splattered against a tree or something. I can picture the obituary already: 'He didn't see it coming. The tree is still concussed'.”

“You're an idiot,” Arthur says, biting his lip. “And we're not going to join the others on their pro slopes. We'll go easy at first and choose a beginners run.”

“Great,” Merlin complains, though his cheeks are showing dimples again. “I'm going to share my learning experience with all the little kids.”

Less than an hour later Arthur is pulling the ski-lift’s guard-bar down across his and Merlin's laps, the cable clanking loudly overhead, the swish of skiers dodging slalom obstacles below considerably less ear-splitting. They're on their way to the easiest – green flag – slope La Vormaine can offer and making good time climbing to the top. Arthur remembers this slope from when his father first brought him to Chamonix with the intent of making a good sportsman out of him. (“Mens sana in corpore sano,” is one of Father's most beloved tenets.) Having moved on to advanced level and free-style runs since, Arthur's googled it to be sure the resort's stayed the same through the years and he's found out that it has. The kiddie run's still there.

“I was right,” Merlin tells him, goggles pushed back on his forehead, cheeks bright with the pungent air. “It's all kids that way. I spot a toddler.”

Arthur takes a sharp breath of nearly glacial air. “You said you didn't want to die.”

Merlin shouts a little to be heard over the clank of the pulleys. “Yeah, I was also hoping to retain some dignity.”

Arthur pats Merlin's knee, feeling the bone even under strata of thermal insulation provided by Merlin's borrowed ski-suit. It's a familiar gesture, he realises, and one he shouldn't be trying with a relative stranger, but giving in to it doesn't feel wrong so he goes with the flow. “Don't worry, Merlin. When all's said and done I'll only post all the pics I've taken of you falling over on your backside all over my Facebook wall.”

“Dickhead,” Merlin says with a big smile on his face and in the same tone someone else would say, 'You're the cutest and most adorable puppy in the litter.'

“Strangely enough, Morgana'd agree.”

Ten minutes later they board off the lift and make it to the top of a wide slope free of trees and any other obstacles. “Okay,” Arthur says. “Normally you'd already be wearing skis, but since you've got to learn, I didn't want to strap you up myself.”

Merlin salutes him. “Yessir!”

“Ha, ha,” Arthur says, “do you want to learn or not?”

“I'm re-thinking the idea,” Merlin says, casting dubious glances at his rented equipment. “How do I even put those on? They're locked together bottom to bottom.”

“Just set the skis upright, there on the back end.” Merlin does. So far so good. Arthur continues explaining. “Now hold down the one with the inside brake and wiggle off the other one.”

Merlin does so much wiggling he topples over backwards, one ski on, the other off. Arthur trudges over to him. “Well, the good news is you unlocked them. The bad news is you're down.”

“My arse is so deep in snow I'm not about to miss that titbit,” Merlin says, propping himself up on his elbows. 

Arthur reaches a hand out to him and gets him back to his feet. “Let's try again.”

For all his whingeing Merlin really does give it a fair shot, taking Arthur's orders, brow furrowed with the effort of getting it right, tongue poking out from time to time like a studious child's. 

It almost makes Arthur want to coo, if he ever did such a thing, which no, just no.

Placing himself in front of Merlin so they're mirroring each other and Arthur can better exemplify the moves Merlin should mimic, Arthur says, “Bend your knees and lean forward slightly.”

Merlin does as he's told, beaming when he gets himself correctly positioned.

Even though he's got an awkward stance right there, Arthur can't bring himself to be too severe on him. It'd be like kicking a puppy. “That's acceptable,” he says, coughing into his fist to cover the lie. “Now hold your poles by your sides, like this.” He shows Merlin what to do and Merlin imitates him fairly well. His stance is passable at least and once again Arthur can't find the heart to be picky about it.

“Just in case,” Merlin says, “how do I stop myself from falling?”

Arthur releases a loud breath. “If you spread your skis, you slow down.” Arthur shows Merlin how that's done. “Point your skis together and you'll stop. Don't cross them. The rest's gravity.”

“Ooookay,” Merlin mumbles, trying both strategies while at a stand-still. Arthur doesn't think that's the right way to go about it, movement making all the difference, but doesn't put any undue stress on the fact. “I think I've got that.”

“Good,” Arthur says. “Now shuffle forward until you start to slide, knees apart, poles out in front.”

Merlin obeys and starts ploughing forward. Arthur's almost thinking he's got it when Merlin gains rather too much speed, shouts, “How do you slow down again?” and careens right into him, knocking Arthur off his feet and causing him to fall backwards.

“Ouff,” Arthur grunts, the shock of impacting against the snow bank making him wince, his breath knocked out him. Arthur's about to voice a long-winded rant, the beginnings of which he has mapped out, when he blinks and realises that Merlin's landed on top of him, eyes very blue, cheeks very mauve, grin in place. The rant's aborted.

Like this Arthur can feel the weight of Merlin, his breath fan against his neck, the contours of his bones and, admittedly, the pointy angularity of his elbows. All of the above bar the latter are very nice things. Very, very nice. To be quite frank, he wouldn't mind staying like this for a little longer because those eyes are so very, very blue. And clear. And those lashes are as thick as they come. And Merlin's mouth is gloriously plump, even though his lips are pushed together in dismay.

Jiggling on top of him, paws on Arthur chest in an attempt to scramble off him, Merlin says, “Sorry.”

Arthur lets out a roar of laughter that inspires Merlin to laugh too. Merlin's laughter begins deep in his chest, but by the time it rumbles out of his throat it's lighter, lilting, more good-humoured. 

For a while they can't stop, it's like corpsing, and they're setting each other off all the time, especially when they try to sober up. It's worse whenever they try to struggle upright and they fail, skis locking together, hands slipping and palming body parts they oughtn't be palming, limbs tangling until it's almost embarrassing and Arthur finds himself wanting to strain upwards and catch Merlin's lips with his.

At long last they get back on their feet, brushing themselves off. “To be fair,” Merlin says, “you're sort of shit at explaining.”

Still staring at Merlin's lips and at his healthy high colour, Arthur has to shake himself out of his reverie to sound grounded enough to answer. “And you're shit at grasping very simple concepts. It's physics, Merlin. Physics.”

“Physics, my arse.”

Even though it's in no guise advisable they have a second (and a third and a fourth and a fifth) go at skiing and by the time the sun's close to setting, orange gilding the mountain range, Merlin's managed to crawl (very slowly) his way down the green flag slope three times. 

Six-year olds do overtake him – and Arthur gleefully points that out – but Merlin is so unreservedly happy, Arthur stops doing so and merely compliments him.

There's even hope Merlin might get to plough down at a more normal speed by the time this holiday is over, after all.

They're queuing for the ski-lift that'll take them back down when Arthur realises he isn't quite done. He doesn't want to go back to the chalet and argue with Morgana, watch Gwen and Leon be cooing love-birds, and put up with Gwaine. He wants to prolong this. He wants to feel as light hearted and weightless, worry free, as he has all of today. If he thinks about it, he hasn't mooned about Gwen, thought of his job or any other less than perfect component of his life for hours on end.

Merlin's seems to have had a good time too, so Arthur doesn't feel too much like a loser when he blurts out, “Let's go for a coffee or a hot chocolate or tea. We can spike it if you want.”

Merlin ducks his head into the folds of his scarf, the lobes of his ears chafed red from the cold. “I was fine with the coffee actually. Not against the spiking either. I'd give anything for something warm.”

“Says the man who pushed me onto a mound of snow,” Arthur says, as he swings himself onto the ski-lift, immediately after making space for Merlin. “There's snow in my boots and crawling down my neck.”

“I think there's some in my briefs,” Merlin stage whispers. “Think of that and compare.”

Arthur's sides are still shaking with laughter by the time they get back to Chamonix village. Once there, they ensconce themselves in the cosiest café they can find and order cupfuls of warm beverages, the flush still high on their faces.

They sit at a window table and could theoretically people-watch to their heart's content but they don't take much heed of what's going on outside. Or inside for that matter. That's because they're deep in the silliest conversation Arthur can remember ever taking part in. 

Steam rising from his coffee and twirling upwards until it dissolves into the ether, Merlin's saying, “--all of his clothes, down to the smallest bit, that's why Will maintains that the only solution to survive communal living is wearing bodysuits.”

Arthur buries his snort in a sip. “Odd friends you have.”

“It's not like you don't,” Merlin says. “Morgause and Cenred? High and mighty. Check. Your sister--”

“You can't choose your relatives.”

“Check.”

“Says the man who's chums with Gwaine.”

“Ha but.” Merlin waves his finger at him. “He's your friend too.”

“I didn't exactly seek him out.”

“No, Morgana introduced you, but we're still even, bless Gwaine,” Merlin tells him. 

“But you have body-suit Will on your side!” Arthur protests. “Losing points there.”

“True, true,” Merlin says, downing some more coffee. “At least your other friends are, you know, normal, supportive friends. They're all so lovely. Mithian, Leon, Gw--”

Arthur dips his head and slides his finger across the ring of condensation his cup's left, disrupting it.

“Oh sorry,” Merlin says, leaning forward. “I--”

“It's all right.” Arthur says. “I know what you mean and they are. They're good people. It took me a while getting over the... anger but we’re fine. I'm fine. Things have changed.” Merlin looks soft and understanding and sceptical and quite lovely in the sombre light. “It's new, this being fine thing, but it's there. And I've moved on.” 

By way of tone and delivery he tries and makes sure that Merlin understads.

“Arthur,” Merlin says, eyes shining with compassion, voice rumbling deep with feeling.

The display of solidarity, the same kind he would have rejected coming from someone else, or even coming from Merlin himself the day before, causes Arthur to lean forward and touch the tips of his fingers to the tips of Merlin's, both of their hands splayed flat on the rough wooden table.

He's leaning forward, the touch an anchor and a prod, when Morgana's voice rings over to them. “Oh there you are,” she says, strutting over, hair tossed to one side and perfectly styled even though she must have worn a hat all day long. “I was wondering where you two were. Now I see you're together.”

Both Arthur and Merlin lean back in their respective seats.


	5. Chapter 5

Morgana offers to give them a lift home. Since he and Merlin took the bus to the ski-lift and meant to go back by the same means, the offer is readily accepted. They'll spare themselves the waiting-in-a-bus-shelter-battered-by-the-wind part of the outing.

Morgana's driving through the busy streets edging out of town when Merlin starts pawing at his seatbelt, saying, “Stop, stop. Could you please drop me here?”

“What?” Morgana says braking to a screech of tyres and getting blared at by the car behind theirs. “Here? Now? Why?”

“I forgot to pick up something in town?” Merlin says, fumbling with the seat-belt’s latch. “You don't need to wait for me. I'll just take the bus back.”

Flipping the bird at the blaring driver, Morgana pulls over, leaving the car idling. “Don't be a fool. I'll wait. It'll take you forever to get back by bus and we don't want you to hitch-hike again.”

“But,” Merlin starts to object.

“Merlin,” Morgana says, tapping restless fingers on the steering wheel, “I'm being nice. You want to stay on my good side when I'm nice.”

Merlin's mouth slips open to protest but he soon gets that gainsaying Morgana when she's starting to get pissy is never a good idea. Good boy, it took Arthur some seventeen years in the world to figure that one out. “All right then,” Merlin says, finally releasing the seatbelt. “I'll be as quick as I can.”

So saying, he bounces out of the car. Arthur can see him jog down the street and towards the pedestrian area, where all the shops are. 

He stays looking baffled at Merlin's retreating form for a second or two, then he climbs into the passenger seat vacated by Merlin. It's closer to the heating anyway and while Merlin's not there Arthur might as well benefit. 

He's tinkering with the radio because Morgana's got Adele on and Adele depresses Arthur like no one else – and he's more in the mood for something hard and fast anyway – when Morgana scares the living daylights out of him by snapping, “Don't tell me you're serious.”

“Wow, Morgana,” Arthur says, “I know you like this girl crooning about her love life and being dumped but I think I can be allowed a little variety.”

“I wasn't talking about the music,” Morgana says. To prove that that isn't the subject she wishes to discuss she turns the radio off. “I was talking about Merlin.”

Arthur reaches his hand out to turn the radio back on but Morgana bats it away, almost rapping him on knuckles. “What about Merlin?”

“I know what I saw,” Morgana tells him, her words sounding loaded and ominous and portentous the way the words the end is nigh do. “Back in the café, you were making googly eyes at Merlin. If I hadn't walked in something would have happened and you know it.”

Arthur yanks his gaze up to Morgana's face. “I don't know what you're talking about.”

Morgana quirks up her eyebrow. “I'm not buying it,” Morgana says. “You were about to snog at the very least.”

“That's not true,” Arthur says. This is not a lie. They were simply brushing fingers; nothing more. It might have been one of those things you do when you get a bit flirty with someone, but it's still nothing much. To think that a kiss would have followed right then is far-fetched. Dream scenarios, however pleasant, are still dream scenarios. “I don't know what you're talking about.”

A flash of light at the car's window throws Morgana's slightly pinched features in relief. “You know perfectly well what I'm talking about,” she says, shutting the car so even the engine noise dies down. Arthur's sure that that's more environmentally friendly but he isn't sure that the silence is going to be of any advantage to him. It's just one of Morgana's scare tactics. Because the absence of sound is bloody unnerving and any good inquisitor knows that. “Don't play dumb, Arthur.”

Arthur huffs in annoyance. “Look,” he says, “even if I'd bent him over the table and fucked him silly, it would be none of your business. He's an adult. I'm an adult. I don't have to explain. That said, I'm not admitting anything.”

Morgana's face scrunches up. “Oh that's admission all right.”

Knowing there's only one way to get his point across, Arthur lets his voice go hard. “Morgana, don't.”

Morgana turns her head to stare out the windscreen. Briefly, Arthur's convinced that he's won and that the subject will be dropped not to be brought up again. But he hasn't reckoned with Morgana's stubbornness. “There's a reason why I'm warning you off him,” she says.

Arthur turns his head sharply round. “What the hell is that supposed to mean?” 

Cryptic statements are just like Morgana but that doesn't mean he has patience for them tonight. 

Morgana twists herself in her seat so she can fully face him. “Do you know why Merlin's here?”

Not bothering to point out that answering a question with a question is bad form and annoying to boot, Arthur says, “Of course I know why Merlin's here. You extended an invite to him because it's the holidays.”

Morgana shoots him a mocking glance. “No,” she says. “He's here because Gwaine asked me to get him here.”

Arthur can't help his superior tone when he says, “I know that, Morgana. Merlin told me yesterday.”

“That only highlights your ignorance,” Morgana says. She allows her mouth to curve in a derisive grimace. “Gwaine is into Merlin. He's truly taken with the man. Besotted. It hurts to see. Of course it takes some perception to, which you haven't got, but Merlin's very close to him, as even you must have noticed. This holiday was meant, among other things, to bring them together.”

Confronted with this piece of knowledge Arthur can do nothing else but think back to each and every moment he's seen Merlin and Gwaine together. Gwaine is certainly very touchy feely with Merlin, but then again he is with most everybody. 

Arthur clearly remembers Gwaine making a cursory pass at him when he learnt Arthur was bi. He's sure no one in Morgana's group of friends, which is mostly by extension Arthur's too, has escaped his advances. It's true though. Merlin's pretty cosy with Gwaine. He lets Gwaine touch him and even grope him a bit, he smiles every time he and Gwaine bump into each other, and never seems to reject Gwaine's verbal overtures. 

When Merlin talks about Gwaine there's fondness in his voice and an amused smile appears on his lips. That doesn't seem to belie Morgana's statement. So, yeah, she might be right.

On the other hand Arthur's neither seen nor heard anything that would make him think Merlin's in love with Gwaine. That very morning, before they went out skiing, Merlin had told Arthur Gwaine was being intense and that Morgana was encouraging him. Those aren't the words of a man in love and they also account for Morgana's interest in the matter. 

But the point is that Arthur can't be sure he's right or that Morgana, who's known both Merlin and Gwaine for longer that he has, is wrong. 

Was Merlin flirting with Arthur earlier today? Was he acting in a way that would show he was open to a pass from Arthur? Arthur doesn't necessarily think so. He thinks rather that Merlin is a universally nice bloke who was particularly so that morning. 

“You know, Morgana,” Arthur says, short and clipped, “I'm the last person likely to embark on a holiday romance, once bitten, twice shy and all that, but this is still none of your business, so keep your nose out of it.”

There's a click of the tongue on Morgana's part. “Just promise me you're not pursuing Merlin.”

“Morgana.”

“Promise me, Arthur.”

Arthur's gaze shifts so he's no longer meeting Morgana's eyes. He wants to object, say he'll do just what he wants, but maybe that's not prudent at all. He'd only be in for a lot of trouble if he let his instincts, which once taught him to think that Gwen was there to stay, take over. “All right, I'm not pursuing Merlin.”

The back door opens and Merlin slides into the back-seat, holding a shopping bag tight to his chest, ushering in the cold wind until he bangs the door shut again. “Merlin what?” he asks, leaning forwards and cocking his head like a curious cat, a hand on the shoulder rest of Arthur's seat. “I heard you mention my name.”

Arthur cringes; it's Morgana who dives in. “Yes, dear,” she says. “Arthur was saying that tonight's menu wouldn't appeal to you while I said it would.”

Evidently nonplussed, Merlin shakes his head. “Why wouldn't it?”

“Oh,” Morgana says, starting the car again. “He says it's too sophisticated.”

Merlin breathes a heavy sigh cum grunt and settles in the corner opposite Arthur's seat, his face blank and turned to the window, headlights washing his profile into a soft orange glow that somehow still throws the sharpest angles of his features into shadow. His face has never looked so closed off before. Merlin's face hasn't been made to look that way, Arthur thinks.

The words, “Merlin, that's not what she meant,” trip off his tongue before Arthur can quite think them through but Merlin's not really listening.

The drive home takes them a little longer than usual because most people have stayed out later to complete their Christmas shopping and have poured into their cars and clogged the village streets to do it. 

Even though they're a little late they do make it in time for dinner. “Here,” Morgana says, darkening the door, “look what I found when I stopped for a coffee at La Terrasse?”

He and Merlin clomp in after Morgana. When they do, the group explodes into collective greetings. Gwaine bounces over to Merlin, dusting snow off his shoulders, and says, “Hey, I haven't seen you all day!”

Merlin smiles a little weakly at him. 

Arthur watches their interactions but they're conducted in low voices and bursts of laughter on Gwaine's part so it's impossible to suss them out. Nothing to deduce there. Not unless he were Sherlock Holmes and high on coke.

Before Arthur can make heads or tails of Merlin and Gwaine's real relationship (as opposed to the romanticised, Gone-With-the-Wind one Morgana fancies real) Merlin excuses himself. He and his mysterious shopping bag disappear into his room. For a while Arthur stares after him but is soon after co-opted by Mithian and Percival – today's chefs – into helping ladling out dinner.

Dinner itself isn't a protracted affair -- though everybody's in a good mood and inclined to linger on at the table rather than move on to bed. 

When every plate has been scrubbed clean and their digestion is well under way, Elena sabotages it by making hot chocolate for all of them. Each with their mug, they sprawl in front of the crackling fireplace and set out to relax.

Arthur's eyes go to Merlin the moment his attention is not forcibly engaged somewhere else. Merlin is sitting with his knees drawn up and his arms wrapped around them. He looks a bit forlorn, the odd one out, but also handsome in a way Arthur hasn't noticed before. Not this way. (And isn't this the worst moment to come to that realisation?)

Not knowing what a mess he's made of Arthur's feelings or good sense, Merlin has fallen quiet, not even Gwaine cracking jokes in his ear helping to cheer him up. He does brighten up when Elena says, “Ghost story time!” and Gwaine leaps up to switch they lights off. Arthur takes it that it's so as to provide the right atmosphere.

If Universal could it'd probably brand it for its sole use.

Clearly a sucker for this kind of thing, Percival claps his hands together in obvious approval while Morgause and Cenred share wry glances before announcing that they're going to bed. “Ghost stories are trivial and we're certainly past the age at which they're at all appealing.”

Gwaine calls after them, “Pitiful excuse, we know what you're up to.”

A lewd catcall that Morgause and Cenred ignore follows.

Arthur sits with his back to one of the armchairs, his mug, now no longer steaming, placed on the floor between his legs. More silent than his wont, he watches the company and sees how they're all, or at least most of them, friends, trading jokes as well as shilling out shocking tales. 

Since his turn's yet a while to come, he takes his time observing Merlin and Gwaine and decides he can now sense some kind of tension between them. Whether it's bi-laterally sexual he can't say. It's more obvious on Gwaine's side. His jokes are all somehow aimed at diverting Merlin, his laughter is mostly in response to what Merlin says – warranted or not, a sure sign of complete and utter infatuation – and his body is always angled towards him. 

So Morgana may not have been wrong and Arthur is decidedly better off not doing anything at all regarding Merlin. He doesn't want to put the moves on someone who has a third party on the brain. As his personal history proves, that's a bad idea.

As Arthur thoughts drift back to the present, Percival finishes his story, involving an axe-wielding ghost, and Gwaine takes the stage. “Well, my story is a well known tale from my parts,” he starts. “Where I'm from everybody knows about it. I mean, it's not a legend and it's not fiction. It's truly fucking real.”

Elena seems enraptured. “God, I like this. Can't wait for the rest.”

“Gwaine sounds like a good story-teller,” Mithian agrees.

“Hear, hear,” says Percival.

Even though he's sitting, Gwaine takes a bow, the show-off. “I was saying,” he says, “that this is a true story. I hope you're prepared for it because it's not for the faint of heart. Anyway some of you may know that I come from an old town in the North. Well, the town's so old it's stood there for centuries, so plenty of ghosts to collect.”

Gwaine has the audience at his mercy.

“Well,” Gwaine says, “if you wander around the old quarter late at night, right at this time of year, you may run into a ghostly procession.” 

“Like the Wild Hunt?” Mithian asks.

Gwaine looks perplexed but soldiers on with his tale. “No, more like a procession of old mail coaches. Mostly they'll pass you by. But if you stay and really look at them and make them know you're there, they'll take you back in time and you'll never see your near and dear ones ever again.”

Just as Arthur's lips twitch, Merlin hoots with laughter. Hugging his middle, he thumps his foot on the floor. “That was Dickens, you wanker.”

“Aw, Merlin,” Gwaine says, “why don't you just go and destroy my cred a bit more? Nobody'd guessed.”

“Tough luck, amigo. It's so obviously Dickens I can't stand by and let you tear him to shreds. It's unholy what you're doing. Unholy.”

They all burst out laughing, Percival shouting, “Cheat,” at the top of his lungs and in falsetto, Gwen saying she'd expected better of Gwaine, while Mithian says, “Not really,” causing the others to crack up again.

Elena's story is the story of a dead Epsom jockey. Mithian's delivery is much more complicated, romantic and creepy at once. Leon swears he's unimaginative and begs off the story telling part of the evening, while Morgana goes for slasher in tone. Freddy Krueger is a lily of the valley compared to her villain.

And then it's Merlin's turn and Arthur's eyes are drawn to him by simple virtue of the fact he's smiling at his audience and is more at ease than before. When he is at ease, Merlin's rather fascinating to watch. His eyes wrinkle with crow's feet and his upper lip quivers to rein in a smile. There's a mischievous softness to him that Arthur could take in for hours. 

“My story is something I researched for Finna,” Merlin meanwhile begins. “It's not going to make it into her next book, so I can talk about it here. It's an old legend.” He wets his lips and Arthur knows it's more for entertainment value, to make the others anticipate his narrative, than because they're chapped.

Unfortunately, Arthur's mind goes to the gutter in one fell swoop so that rather than waiting with baited breath for the story he gets short of breath for all the wrong reasons. Hoping that no one will guess what's really on his mind – basically porn of the most explicit variety – he makes himself switch his gaze to Gwaine just to remind himself of what Morgana told him in the car.

Merlin's oblivious to all this, of course. He merely goes on. “It's a tale of love...”

Gwen rubs Leon's arm up and down and says, “Oh, is it a tale of star-crossed lovers?”

“No, not really,” Merlin says. “It's a tale of filial love. Once upon a time a young king recently bereaved of his father found a magic horn. This horn was called the Horn of Cathbadh. There was a reason why this instrument was so special: it allowed the wielder to call back, for a while mind you, the spirits of the dead.”

Elena makes a noise and hugs herself.

“The young king had loved his father dearly and wanted to see him but once more. Yet he knew little of the powers of this special horn,” Merlin continues. “So he used it without knowing the rules that made it work.”

Elena crawls forward. “What happened?”

“He released his father's spirit into the world of the living.”

As if in search of warmth, Mithian rubs her arms. “Creepy.”

“Indeed,” Merlin agrees. “Our young king didn't know that he shouldn't have looked back at the spirit once their covenant was over. But the king loved his father and he did look back.”

Arthur speaks for the first time since they all gathered round the fireplace. “Like Orpheus.”

Merlin bobs his head up and down vehemently and a pleased smile stretches wide on his lips. His eyes fasten on Arthur's and for a moment Arthur believes they'll never stop engaging his. “Yeah like that. Like his father was his...”

“Eurydice,” Arthur finishes for him.

“Lads,” Mithian says, “could you please not go mutually nerdy on us and let us hear the end?”

“Sure,” Merlin says, tearing his eyes from Arthur to give Mithian a nod. “The story, where was I...”

The tale Merlin delivers is one that would be work better at Halloween parties, involving, as it does, the tearing of the veil between the living and the dead, a poltergeist king, a living one, and a haunted castle, but everyone's on the edge of their seats and hanging from every word Merlin's saying all the same.

By the time he's got to the finale, they're all so primed for scary scenarios that when the fire in the fireplace fizzles out, some of them – not Arthur, of course – jump up.

“Merlin,” Morgana says, taking stock of the shortage of kindling, “could you please be a dear and go chop some wood outside?”

Merlin makes a face. “Chop wood?”

“Don't worry.” Morgana smiles. “I'm not asking you to go and fell a tree caveman style. There's a few pre-prepared logs outside. You'll just have to cut them down to size so they actually fit into the fireplace.”

Merlin's gape relaxes into a smile. “Oh, okay then. I just worried for a moment there.”

As Merlin heaves himself to his feet to go get his parka, Percival stands and offers to help him. Choosing to highlight how useful he'd be in such a context by flexing his muscles (which are impressing even from underneath layers of wool and have been dubbed since time immemorial the Guns of Navarone), he makes a big show of them.

But Arthur's feeling the urge to talk to Merlin and right now this chopping wood chore sounds like the best excuse he might ever be offered to get a moment alone with Merlin. “Stay,” Arthur says, unwrapping himself from his sitting position to climb to his feet. “I'll go with Merlin. We don't want to you to atomise the logs.”

“But,” Percival complains, “I've been doing nothing all day...”

“I wouldn't call beating the local slalom champion doing nothing all day, Perce,” Mithian says.

“I miss the gym,” Percival says. “I haven't been in five days!”

“Percival,” says Mithian both softly and eloquently, “just let Arthur go.” She sends Arthur an odd glance Arthur can't read and causes Merlin to say, “I don't need any help.” Arthur's just grateful that Mithian's intervened.

“Come on, Merlin,” Arthur drawls, “we'll be that much faster if it's the two of us.”

Splitting firewood is not as easy as it seems, both he and Merlin realise once they're put to it. For one it's a strain on the back muscles. Besides, standing outside with a temperature of minus four isn't the most pleasant of activities. And this in spite of them getting warmed up thanks to the physical exercise.

Inconveniences notwithstanding he and Merlin manage to balance their pieces of wood on their chopping block correctly and not to chop off any fingers. That doesn't mean it's all hunky-dory, but they can deal.

Both their noses are as red as a clown's and Merlin's hair is liberally sprinkled with snow. 

“Can I talk to you?” Arthur says, as he watches Merlin swing a blow with both arms and split a log in two.

Merlin mops at his brow with his sleeve. “You're already talking to me.”

“No,” Arthur says, wishing he could bypass the chopping block standing between them and brush the snow off Merlin's hair. “I mean about what Morgana said in the car.”

Merlin compresses his lips and gestures for another log to split. “I have no idea what you're going on about.”.

Arthur passes him a second piece of wood. “About you not being sophisticated.”

“Oh, that,” Merlin says, before pulling the axe straight back over his head and swinging it forward. “I'd forgotten.” Then, taking a look at the piece of wood on the block he says, “Hasn't split.”

“Yeah, I can see that,” Arthur says, dismissing that from his thoughts because he doesn't particularly care about the firewood when they have perfectly functional radiators in every room. “But that's not what I want to talk about.”

“I see.” Merlin grunts with the effort as he hits the wood again. 

“Merlin, Morgana was joking,” Arthur says without ratting out his sister as to her Gwaine plot. “I never said those words. I never made a comment on dinner, or you, or your levels of gourmandise. And I certainly never meant to put you down 'cause I never said a word against you.”

Merlin brightens up. “Really?” he says, sounding chipper and happy until his face clouds over. Merlin's so expressive, the idiot, Arthur can tell what's going on with him just on the basis of the faces he pulls. “But you mentioned my name. I heard the word 'Merlin'. Now, bless my mum, Merlin's a pretty rare name and I don't think you just went ornithology crazy back in the car.”

Arthur huffs a laugh. “We _were_ talking about you,” Arthur says, closing his fingers around Merlin's wrist. “But nothing bad was said. Because I...” Suddenly the minus three degree temperature doesn't seem like that much of an obstacle to him having the hots. It's like it thirty-four° and sunny. He could be trekking across the bloody Australian desert he feels so hot about the face. “Because I most assuredly have nothing bad to say about you.”

Merlin flicks a glance at Arthur's fingers wrapped around his wrist, hums under his breath, and then grins lopsidedly. “Is that true?”

“Yeah, that's nothing but the truth.”

And then Merlin's no longer staring at the point of contact between them but at Arthur and Arthur's staring right back. Snow's falling around them in giant flakes and it's all hushed and quiet but for the hooting of an errant owl. 

Now, Arthur thinks is the moment to risk it, move forwards and snatch a kiss for himself. The hell with the consequences. The hell with the past. He's mid dive forwards when Percival steps out onto the deck balcony and calls out, “Hey, we're still waiting for that firewood over here.”

Merlin and he spring apart like chamois leaping from boulder to boulder. Probably to look as if he's busy with the task Morgana entrusted them with, Merlin wrestles the axe out of the wood, sweating and growling and cursing out loud, and prepares to hit it again.

In a similar mood he starts raining blows on the wood, but it neither splits nor cracks. At best it splinters. 

Having failed, he hands Arthur the axe and says, “You try it,” only for Arthur to suffer the same fate as Merlin. There's no getting through the wood.

Arthur's winded; Merlin's red with the effort. It's humiliating but they just can't.

Forehead beaded with sweat, Merlin cups his hands around his mouth and shouts, “Hey, Percival, how about lending a hand?”

Percival is, of course, delighted to show off his prowess and shame them forever and ever. Two blows and the wood comes apart in perfectly sizeable and serviceable logs.

He trots back into the chalet carrying the wood basket himself, Merlin and Arthur in tow, brushing hands.

They stop when Morgana appears on the threshold and says, “Bad news, Merlin. I've just been to your room to get you fresh towels and unfortunately the radiator's not working. I don't think the plumber will grace us with his presence before January.”

Merlin looks a bit appalled. Sudden flushes that leave you hot and breathless aside (and which Arthur's starting to get around Merlin), it's really fucking cold. This is the Alps in December.

“But no worries,” Morgana says brightly, leading them back into the living room, where Percival's feeding the fire. “I've moved your stuff to Gwaine's room.”

Arthur's never wanted to curse at the deity presiding over faulty radiators so much as right now.


	6. Chapter 6

Christmas Eve morning dawns bright and frostily sunny. The view from Arthur's window is like a picture taken out of a Hallmark card. Snow moulds the hills around the chalet into softer lines and the pines bordering the property are all crowned with it. To cap it all off a white fleecy layer of snow blankets the path up to the porch.

Sleepy but enthused about the view, Arthur slogs out of his bedroom and, not as awake as he might be after a cuppa, he runs straight right into someone, the collision slightly painful. Before Arthur can tell who the person he walked into is, this someone has bounced square off Arthur's chest. The person would have fallen backwards if Arthur hadn't shot an arm out and caught them.

Before he can properly blink or assess the nature of the incident, Arthur catches a whiff of freshly sprayed after shave and the sound of Merlin's lilting, sleepy voice. “Um, hi, hello, hi.”

Having identified Merlin as the person he ran into and had an inadvertent armful of, Arthur slides his hands lower so he's palming the small of Merlin's back. “Hello,” he says, without putting any distance between them, “I didn't see you there.”

Merlin scoffs though his eyes are practically dancing with merriment. “I bet. I didn't see you either. Was too excited about all the snow. We don't get snow this high where I live. Not in Ealdor either. That's where I was born. So I wanted to... run out and maybe indulge in some snowman building. Childish of me, isn't it?”

Arthur notices that Merlin hasn't disengaged either. They're standing nose to nose. Merlin's hand has wandered up Arthur's forearm and the fingers of one of Arthur's hands are brushing Merlin's tail bone. 

An inch lower and... “No, no, it's not. I had a peek out and thought it was great... That snow had fallen.”

“Me too. It looks like candy floss!” Merlin says, dragging in a breath when Arthur shifts and their chests collide again.

Arthur's tips his nose sideways, his mouth grazing Merlin's cheek in a barely there way. “Candy floss?”

“Yeah, it's--” Merlin tilts his head a little. “It's fluffy. Snow is.”

Arthur's breath hitches; the hand that's not at Merlin's back travelling up his side. He tips his head sideways, his bottom lip brushing against Merlin's upper one. An inch and it'll be closing around it.

A door opens and Mithian slips out, cinching the belt of her nightgown. She stops short when she sees them locked in a semi-embrace. “I think I don't need to wish you a happy Christmas,” she says brightly. “You already saw to it. But happy Christmas anyway.”

They move apart, Merlin's hand going to his hair to muss it up, Arthur's eyes to his bare feet. “We,” Arthur starts. “I--”

“There's no need to go beet red,” says Mithian. “But I can keep it secret if you want?”

“There's no secret,” Merlin says. “Not as such.”

Arthur doesn't know how to take that. Is Merlin rejecting the idea that something could happen between them. Or is he just saying that there's nothing to tell for now? This is head-ache inducing. It's too early in the morning for this. Most definitely. 

“What he said,” Arthur says, inclining his head towards Merlin. Agreeing seems like the best course of action for now; he won't tee Merlin off and he'll look as if he's naturally intuitive and on the same page as Merlin.

“I see that there's some talking you need to do,” Mithian says. “Why don't we have breakfast now so you can do more of that when some coffee's got into you?”

“Yeah,” Merlin says, “brilliant idea.”

Merlin follows Mithian into the kitchen and Arthur trails after Merlin. As opposed to yesterday when he and Merlin were left on their own, this morning everyone's there. Percival is nostrils deep in a plate of scrambled eggs. Gwen's buttering toast while Leon dollops marmalade on top of the slices she's prepared, a perfectly synched duo. Elyan and girlfriend are practically nodding off into their coffee cups while Cenred and Morgause are surprisingly alert.

Morgana and Elena are respectively fiddling with the espresso machine and the blender. Arthur suspects that Elena's about to prepare one of her milkshakes of doom. Drinking them has never done anyone good but it has been known to guarantee a long-term visit to the loo.

Even if Arthur's eyes search for him, Gwaine's not there. He's probably still in bed, snoring peacefully on. For someone who used to be an ace at sports, Gwaine can be quite lazy. Merlin squeezes in at the table and Arthur dislodges Percival with a hip nudge so he can sit across from him. “You've eaten enough,” he tells Percival. “You don't want your muscles go to flab.”

Not particularly into getting hints, Percival does really drop a look at his biceps and then at his plate. “Maybe I should go for a run?” he says. “Anyone want with?”

Nobody does apparently. The company's too lazy for that, so Percival lopes off to his room, probably to change into joggers.

Eyes roving over the plate of croissants, the buns and the other typically local confections Morgana must have had delivered from the nearby bakery, Merlin eyes the table spread speculatively.

Arthur pushes a plate full of taillés aux grebons towards him. They remind him of the first time his mum ever took him here. The first thing she did when Arthur would start feeling homesick and longing for less of the Alps and more of the urban environment he was used to was to take him to all the old-fashioned bakeries strew around Chamonix. Arthur loved how quaint they looked. He'd touch everything within reach, drive the bakers crazy, and make his mum smile. The last time he visited with her by his side was when he was 6. 

“Try these,” he says. “They're heaven.”

Merlin taps his finger against his lips. “Erm, what are those?”

“Just Vadois pasties,” Arthur says. “My... my mum used to buy them for me.”

“Yeah,” Leon says, “just watch out; there's tons of lard in there. Could give a man a heart attack.” 

“If you don't want to try them it's all right,” Arthur says, thinking he's pushed it too far out of his own attachment to the things. 

Merlin smiles softly at him though. “Is there a story there?”

“Yeah,” Arthur breathes out. “I'll tell it you one day.”

“Well.” Merlin picks one of the pasties up. “You only live once.”

As Merlin latches onto his taillé, Gwaine saunters in, scratching at his belly. “Good morning, little rays of sunshine. Where's my breakfast?”

Morgana walks up to him with a coffee cup and a croissant. “Here,” she says, hinting at the coffee. “That was mine but I'm giving it to you out of the goodness of my heart.”

“You know I love you, Morgana,” Gwaine says, gulping down the contents of the cup and kissing her cheek.

“I think it's safe to say that's not true,” Morgana says as Gwaine wolfs down his croissant. “But I'll take it as a sign of your goodwill.”

Arthur nudges Merlin's socked foot with his bare one. Crumbs around his mouth, Merlin smiles. “This lard thingy isn't so bad.”

“I'm glad you like the lard.”

“Not campaigning for lard though.”

“I see how that might be.” Arthur's lips tremble on the verge of a smile. He hasn't even been proactive about getting his tea yet but he just can't pull that one in. “Yet it sounds as though lard's become the underdog.”

Merlin clears the last bits of his taillé, pours himself some orange juice, which he downs in one go, and says, “Yep, defo. Everybody’s going for macrobiotic nowadays. All those poor lard products are feeling snubbed.”

Elbow on the table, face supported by his hand, Arthur smiles. “Yeah, true. We should start a Facebook page.”

Elena comments. “I'm not sure I'm following you guys about this lard thing.”

Mithian tells Elena, “Never mind them, Elena. It’s a diet thing between them.”

“Oh.” Gwaine looks as confused as Elena sounds.

While they others eat and drink to their heart's content, Merlin hunches forward. “I was thinking... There's snow outside. And... Maybe we could go build snowmen.” Just as he's said that he takes a look at Arthur's empty plate and empty cup. “Oh, you've not had breakfast yet.”

Arthur waves his hands about in denial and, pushing his chair back, stands up. “Breakfast? Who needs breakfast? Come on; let's go outside.”

“Arthur,” Merlin says on the edge of a chuckle. “I think we should get dressed first.” He sweeps his eyes up and down Arthur's bare legs. “It's pretty cold outside.”

It actually is, as they find out once they make their way there, but it's so bright there's really no incentive to duck back indoors. Gloves and scarves on, they look around the front drive for the raw materials that will go into their snowman. “It's not as if it hasn't snowed all night,” Arthur says. “So I suppose we should just get to it.”

With smiles on their faces they set out to clump together masses of snow. Kneeling down, knees getting wet in a second flat, they start to shape handfuls of snow into one big ball. They pack it on, until Merlin says, “I think we can drop it and roll it now.”

Arthur whistles. “You have appreciable technique there,” Arthur says. “I thought you'd never had the chance to build a snowman before.”

Merlin pats their snowball. “One,” he says, “Youtube. And two--” Merlin winks – “There's lots more you've got to learn about me and technique.”

Arthur bona fide blushes because his mind goes right there. He's enjoying a nice mental image of Merlin naked, lying on white sheets, fluffing his cock in preparation for a round of sex with Arthur, when Merlin drops their moderately sized snowball on his foot.

That serves to yank Arthur right back to the rather harsher reality of no bed and no naked Merlin, though, he has to admit, if he's to go down that road he'd rather be in a position to cross the Ts before anything happens. 

He wants to ask Merlin about Gwaine and he also doesn't want his interest to be revealed by a random erection got at while snowman building. Arthur can be romantic and that isn't. Not one bit. Such a fiasco belongs in the realm of the slightly absurd. It's wacky. And off. 

As these thoughts revolve around Arthur's brain, Merlin's rolls their snowball down the drive, accumulating more and more snow as he goes. He stops from time to time pack the snow into a compact whole, and then continues on until he has the bottom of the snowman's body shaped. “Come on, Arthur, you said you'd help.”

Arthur brushes all fantasies aside and goes to help. Snow squeaking under their feet, they repeat the whole process to shape the snowman's mid section and then his head. 

By the time they've got it, Merlin's flushed and stamping his feet to shake off the cold. He's quite endearing like that and Arthur feels something tug at his heart. 

Hands under his armpits, Merlin grins and says. “I've always wanted to do that.”

“But it's got no eyes and no mouth and no--”

Merlin bumps shoulders with him, almost toppling down when his momentum takes over. He steadies himself on his own though. “But we did it!”

“I suppose we could raid Morgana's fridge for supplies,” Arthur suggests. Morgana must have carrots and other handy veggies stashed in there. They could be good for the nose and eyes. “So we can complete our masterpiece.”

“You're a bit of a nutter, aren't you?”

“It takes one to know one.”

“Hey,” Merlin tells him. “I'll have you know I'm a perfectly balanced, well rounded person.”

“And I'm not?”

Merlin gives Arthur's stomach a couple of pats. “You're certainly well rounded.”

“I'll have you know that that's my jacket's padding. I have a six-pack.”

“If you say so.”

“I'll show you so.” Seeing as stripping at this temperature would be mad and that he's not that much of a narcissist, he proceeds to prove his point the only way he knows how: full out war. Quick as a thought, he scoops some snow up, moulds it into a ball, and shows it under Merlin's clothes and down his neck. 

Merlin yelps. Arthur would never have suspected his voice could actually reach that treble pitch. And then he retaliates, launching as many missiles as he can at Arthur and hiding behind their snowman when he's short of ammunition.

Arthur fashions more snowballs and lobs them at Merlin in rapid succession.

Merlin chooses to surprise Arthur with more random hits.

Arthur is proud to say that he wins that fight because he's a tactical thinker; he's less proud when they start hacking a lung and generally feeling the discomfort of being all wet on a freezing morning such as this. When they trudge back into the chalet, hair plastered to their skulls and cheeks the colour of aubergines – never mind the fact that Merlin's grinning in such a way that he seems to have developed chipmunk cheeks – they draw all gazes to them.

Mithian drops the book she was holding, Gwaine says, “What the fuck!” and Morgana glares at the puddle they leave in their wake.

“Did you just have a close encounter with a Yeti?” she asks.

“Er, no,” Merlin says, tugging at his earlobe and shifting from foot to foot. “More of a snowball fight.”

“A snowball fight?” Elena pitches in. “Why didn't you tell me? I'd have joined in.”

“It was improvised,” says Arthur, fearing he might just have shown the most immature side to his personality to date. “And short lived.”

“We'll clean up, I swear,” Merlin tells Morgana.

“No need,” Morgana says. “I'll mop up after you myself, but Arthur can redeem himself by running an errand for me.”

Arthur leaps at the opportunity. If he lends Morgana a hand he might live this down. “Okay, what do you want me to do?”

Morgana smiles. “I just checked the turkey. Somehow it's gone bad. I found the freezer door open this morning. So I rang up the butcher and he says he has a few more of the beasts that he hasn't sold yet. You and Gwen just need to drive up there, check we're getting fresh product, pay the man and drive back so we can have a nice Christmas Eve dinner.”

“I can do that,” Arthur says. That's like getting out of dirtying Morgana's floors scot free. If Morgana can be appeased so easily, Arthur can add a little drive to his schedule. “I'll go change first.”

On the way to the butcher in Saint-Gervais-les-Bains, the only one Morgana trusts to supply the ingredients for their dinner, Gwen tells him, “You know, I've never seen you like this before.”

Arthur smooths into a lower gear. “Like this how?” 

“I don't know,” says Gwen, playing with the hem of her jumper, “so playful perhaps.”

“You're making me sound like a puppy dog.” 

She cocks her head at him. “Not quite. Though you've been smiling a lot the past two days.”

Arthur exits the motorway. “Talking to you's done me good.”

Sunlight hits the dash and Gwen lowers the visor so as not to be blinded. “It set me at ease too.” She lowers her head, unspooling a thread from out her jumper's hem. “ Just today Morgana said she was worried that our break up had hit you very hard. She was concerned about you and your future now that I wasn't there. I must admit I panicked. I felt so guilty and, I don't know, I started thinking that perhaps I'd ruined your life without ever wanting to.”

“Gwen--”

Gwen firmly cuts him off. “But then I watched you walk in with Merlin in tow, radiating good cheer, and now I think there's no need for us to worry about you.”

Arthur slows the car down as they enter St Gervais' environs. “Gwen,” he says, “it's not what you--”

“I hope it is,” Gwen says. 

“I don't know what it is,” Arthur admits.

Gwen puts her hand on top of his as Arthur palms the gear lever knob. “Sorting it out is half the fun.”

They don't mention any more private matters after that; they just run their errand. The butcher is nice and chatty, gives them extra chops for free, suggests recipes, on which subject Gwen just rambles on, and wishes them happy holidays before they leave. Since Morgana had made this errand sound like an epic task they're both quite happy to be done in less than an hour.

Getting dinner ready takes way longer than that. Each one of them is set a task.

Merlin and Arthur get to peel the potatoes, a bowl at their feet to catch the cast offs, their heads bent together so they can chat about this and that as they go. 

Elyan is tasked with getting the pea mash ready. It looks so green Arthur isn't sure that's natural. Elyan's girlfriend is assigned to the sauces and Arthur, who's dipped a finger in one of the bowls containing her hollandaise, can testify that she's good at it.

However, considering the company's varying levels of culinary expertise, some dishes need some do over. Gwaine botches the butternut squash, Elena the snowmen biscuits garnish Morgana was so set upon, and Percival eats half the mince pies before they have a chance to even lay the table. He just pounces on them the moment they leave the oven. It's scary that he even has a sixth sense for when it will ping.

Nevertheless, Gwen's the one presiding over the turkey, so that goes well at least. In fact, the turkey ends up being perfectly roasted and crispy, the side dishes adding to its crowning glory.

By nine o'clock they do manage to sit down to dinner and they have a cracking time of it.

Wine flows, chatter does too, (even Morgause and Cenred getting hit by the seasonal spirit), and they're all feeling sated, warm and cosy by the time Morgana rolls in the pudding. 

But what they're all really looking forward to is for midnight to strike because midnight is exchanging presents time. It's a Pendragon family tradition. 

Arthur hasn't felt this excited since he was a kid, though he's by no means among the first to pile around the tree with a view to getting his hands on the presents. Whatever other people may say of him, he has some dignity, though he does end up sitting round the Christmas tree just like the others. 

At midnight proper, Morgana uncorks the champagne, shares a toast, and starts handing out her presents. Since she's the host she gets presents back from everyone else (Merlin got her a book, Arthur a fancy bathrobe) though that's not true for everybody. Some of them didn't even know the others before this holiday began, mainly Merlin, and others have never been as close as to warrant gift giving.

Arthur himself gets presents form his sister (a Longines watch bought in nearby Geneva), from Percival, (a gym loyalty card) and from Mithian and Elena together (a fountain pen). A little knot in his throat, he thanks them all. He's knee deep in colourful wrapping paper when Merlin, bustles over to him, coughs and shoves something at him.

At first Arthur just catches a glimpse of a blurry shape being thrust his way. But then he re-focuses and realises that the blurry shape is a carefully wrapped packet. Arthur tips his head back to look at Merlin's standing form. “Is that...”

Merlin smiles shyly. “It's what it looks like.”

“But you didn't know me three days ago.”

“I bought it yesterday,” Merlin says gently, hunkering down, “now will you just open it, you savagely stubborn dunderhead?”

Arthur lets out a smile he knows is silly the moment his lips turn up. Despite that he can't shake it off or hold it back for that matter. He feels high, warm, really merry. He guesses that's the spirit of Christmas or something like that but it's still a nice sensation to cling to. With an eagerness he thought forgotten in childhood, he unwraps his present, stunned and awed that Merlin even thought of him when there was no reason why he should have. 

Wrapping peeled away, only a square grey cardboard box remains. Eyebrow quirked, he lifts one of the flaps holding it closed and peeks at the contents. He can't make out much but the glare of red lacquer. 

“Just open it properly, Arthur,” Merlin huffs. “You're like a kid.”

Not wanting to be called that, Arthur does; he moves the cover aside to reveal a bright red toy train that has snow white wheels.

“It's just the locomotive,” Merlin explains, tugging his fringe back with one and while he points at his present with the other. “Not the whole thing. You can buy more wagons if you want to. Or get a new one from me next year. I got a card with the URL of the shop's website. And I know it's odd and not much, but I hope you like it anyway. I mean I'm aware it's just a toy and what am I doing gifting an adult a toy, but I know you're rich and kinda have everything already so I was hoping.-”

Arthur covers the hand Merlin has splayed flat on his thigh with his. “Merlin, stop.”

Merlin drops his smile.

Maybe Arthur should practice his delivery more. He didn't mean to quell Merlin's good natured babbling or kill his happiness or make him think Arthur was less than on the moon about his present. “I mean thank you.” He lets his own smile do the telling for him, not caring one jot if it's soppy, stupid or if Gwaine's looking at them all pinched and scowly. “It's... I had tons of toy trains when I was a boy. But I don't know what happened to them.” The truth is that Father probably threw them all away, never being one to care for items that have no practical use, but he spares Merlin the tale. “And I love this one.” He swallows hard. “Thank you for even thinking of getting me something.”

“I just wanted to thank you for yesterday,” Merlin begins, and Arthur suspects he wants to say more, and Arthur would eagerly listen to more, but right then Gwaine snatches Merlin away to give him his own present and he loses Merlin to the hustle and bustle of thanks and present swapping. He guesses, there's still tomorrow.

With a lot of them in their cups, not Arthur though, they all get to bed at around two, dishes still piled high in the sink, wrappers on the table, and wrapping paper strewn all around the foot of the tree. 

The chalet looks a little bit like Attila the Hun dropped by and had a merry spree.

After a quick dash to the bathroom to clean his teeth, Arthur just climbs into bed and rolls under the covers, his breath misting a bit, the light dimmed. His thoughts start to dwindle to nothing more than flashes of images and experienced sensations when he lets his eyes slip shut. He's almost dozed off when a rapping sound breaks the quiet. Being halfway into dreamland he doesn't immediately associate the sound with a knock on his door until the noise is repeated. Then he just calls out, “Come in.”

The knob turns and Merlin, wearing nothing but dark joggers and his fleece socks, stumbles in. “Hi, am I disturbing you? If you were sleeping--” He points his thumb backwards – “I can talk to you tomorrow.”

“Merlin,” Arthur says, heart slamming against his ribs. “Come here.”

Merlin's head snaps up, as though he's surprised he hasn't been rebuffed, but then he purposely walks over to him and sits on the bed. “I...” He palms his forehead but then he drops both his hands to lay them flat on his thighs. “There's no beating around the bush now, I suppose. Arthur, I--” Merlin emits a big sigh. “I--”

Arthur sits up, cups Merlin's neck, his fingers threading through the strands at his nape, and pulls him to him. He doesn't need to hear more; he doesn't need a confession. He can take a leap of faith from here. Emotion swelling deep within him until he's a little bit choked, he takes Merlin's upper lip between his and dips his tongue under it, drawing back when Merlin's breath hitches. 

"Nice?"

"Nice." Merlin nods.

They gently nibble back and forth, trading one soft kiss after another, nuzzling each other's mouths, rubbing them together until it all tingles and their lips are red and swollen and Arthur can do nothing but pull back to take in a deep breath. With the rush of oxygen comes a moment of doubt. “What about Gwaine?”

Merlin's brow furrows. “What about Gwaine?”

“Are you and him...” He trails off. 

“Together?” Merlin guesses. “No, he's my friend. I love him dearly, honest. But not...” He shrugs and the lines on his forehead don't ease back into smoothness as he tries to explain the situation he is in with Gwaine. “I believe he might be okay with a hook-up, and I can't say that it hasn't seemed like he might want to at times. Be more than friends, I mean. But... ”

Arthur's about to spill Morgana's secret when he realises it's Gwaine's secret he'd be spilling too. He's won in a way. He's got Merlin and he doesn't think bringing up Gwaine's plan would be fair to Gwaine now. He can be honourable and keep Gwaine's secret. “It's all rig--” he starts saying just as Merlin says, “I'm not with him. I want you. I want you so much it hurts.”

Arthur would have thought that nothing could make him want Merlin more than watching him come to him tonight. But his words do a number on him and he finds himself diving back in for another kiss, sucking on Merlin's lips, drawing them into his mouth, licking at them until Merlin deepens it himself, pressing and pushing his way into Arthur's mouth.

Rather abruptly Merlin breaks the kiss. He's panting when he says, “What about Gwen? I know you said you were over but if you're still... I'd rather not get into an emotional threesome where you're sad about what happened with her and I'm reboun--”

“Merlin,” Arthur says. “I want to be honest about this.”

Merlin scoots backwards. “I...” 

“When I came here I hadn't processed or worked past my issues with Gwen,” Arthur says, as candid as he can be when he's got to lower his defences. “But I told you before. We've worked it all out.”

Merlin nods. “I just wanted to be sure you're in the right place and that you know what you're doing.”

"I know very well what I'm doing." Arthur's parted lips settle atop Merlin's, pressing against his, and then their tongues are flicking in and out of their mouths, making them grunt and sob into it.

Coming up for air, Arthur smiles at Merlin, then bridges the gap between them again, mouthing a line that goes from the corner of Merlin's lips, to his cheek, to the jut of his jaw. When Merlin's breath catches, Arthur starts nibbling on Merlin's neck, worrying the flesh and sucking on it. He stamps his open lips at the base of Merlin's throat, running his tongue in soothing circles once he's done teasing a particular area with his teeth.

His fingers combing through Arthur's hair, Merlin says, "God, you make me burn up.”

“Yeah?”

Before pushing him down, Arthur puts his mouth to Merlin's working throat again, then he climbs on top of him, pinning him down, making Merlin feel his weight and the heaviness between his legs. As he tries to pull Merlin's bottoms down, Merlin grabs his cock through his boxers.

Arthur opens his mouth but nothing comes out. Instinctively, his hips snap forward. “Oh my God,” he says as Merlin pulls his prick through the opening and swipes his thumb at the slit to gather his pre-come. 

“Arthur,” Merlin says and Arthur doesn't know whether that's an invitation for Arthur to do something, or he's pleading for something, or whether he's saying Arthur's name because he needs to. Arthur only knows how good this is. How much he's starving for more of Merlin's touch.

Merlin's intuitive enough to get that even though Arthur can't produce proper words. With a couple of tugs, he works Arthur's boxers low enough to let Arthur's cock bob free, then he kneads and massages it until Arthur's spilling even more drops of pre-come.

With his thumb he spreads them around the head and then up and down Arthur's length. As Merlin goes to town, Arthur freezes. His arms lock as he braces himself above Merlin. 

A little more, just a little more, and he thinks his limbs will fail him and he'll tremble and shake and crush Merlin under his weight. His thoughts scattering, he closes his eyes and lets himself be overwhelmed by the warmth pooling in his belly, by the pleasure-pain radiating from his cock to his spine.

Only the thought that he's getting closer makes him rein himself in. This encouter can't end like this, with a few idle thrusts in Merlin's hand. With a growl he intercepts Merlin's hand. Through gritted teeth, he says, “Stop, Merl--” and then Merlin leans up and pushes his tongue in Arthur's open mouth and they're kissing again, only this time it's raw and deep and lewd. “Don't want to come yet.”

Merlin stops.

Still trying to maintain the kiss, Arthur pulls Merlin's joggers down, but Merlin's lying flat on the bed and they stay stuck. “Off,” Arthur grunts, pawing at the material. “Off.

Crooking his mouth in a smile, Merlin arches up in a beautiful line, allowing Arthur to pull joggers, underwear, and socks off him.

When Merlin's cock is bared, standing straight out from his body, Arthur feels the urge to touch it with everything he has. In a haze of lust Arthur rids himself of the boxers digging into his skin, slides down the bed and mouths Merlin's cock, teasing it with his tongue, leaving it damp at the head from both his spit and Merlin's own pre-come. Wrapping a hand around the base, he starts to suckle at the tip and then bob his head a little, tonguing the underside and the vein that runs under the soft skin's surface.

Merlin bucks and groans and clutches at his hair, at his shoulders, at his forearms, grip slipping the more he arches and curses and fucks Arthur's mouth, hitting the back of his throat when his hips hitch that little bit more.

With Merlin thrusting hard and wild, Arthur feels tears gather in his eyes, but when he looks up it's to see that Merlin has an arm thrown over his eyes, his mouth has gone slack, and his muscles are bunching under his skin pre-orgasm tight. That's a sight to see. It makes him hot. It makes him forget about the discomfort and equally determined to show Merlin what he can do.

A mixture of pride and extreme fondness spurs him on as he swallows against Merlin's cock, bobs back, and softly strokes him with lips and tongue until the flesh in his mouth jerks, Merlin claws at the sheets while calling out, “God yes,” and spills in Arthur's mouth. As Merlin calms, his shaking subsiding, Arthur licks and laves at him for as long as Merlin allows him.

But when Merlin hisses and trembles and makes pained noises, Arthur stops and raises his head to get a proper look at Merlin. And his heart stops. Merlin's shiny with sweat and limp with pleasure, limbs lax, cock soft, spent, and tender looking, mouth shaping in a smile that breaks Arthur's heart to see.

Arthur wants him, wants him with everything he's got in him, but he hasn't got the heart to ask more of Merlin yet. 

What he does instead is take Merlin's mouth in a lazy trade of tongues. It's a kiss that lasts until Merlin runs his palm up his side. “Arthur,” Merlin says, “you haven't.... We can if you want. We can fuck.”

His cock throbbing at the mere thought, Arthur says, “Yeah, I want it. I do. I--”

“Then do,” Merlin says, petting him all the while.

Now solely geared towards that one aim, Arthur searches for a condom and puts it on with only a few fumbles. With hands trembling rather more than when he was unwrapping the condom, he yanks Merlin down the bed and spreads his legs so he's open to him. Hesitantly, he touches Merlin, drawing the tip of a finger round his hole, watching the muscles clench and release at the touch. 

“Art--” It's a grunt. 

The sound alone does things to Arthur's insides that drive him close to coming then and there. He has to deliberately divert his thoughts and picture unsexy things so as not to come. 

“Arthur,” Merlin says again.

Arthur prepares Merlin slowly, carefully, stimulating Merlin as he goes, getting him back to half mast by the time Merlin's ready.

When Merlin relaxes, Arthur slips inside with the tip of his cock. Feeling the rush of it, he stills, enjoying this for what it is and because of the person he's with.

Merlin himself doesn't make a sound, just pulls slowly at his own cock. Watching Merlin do that drives Arthur on. He pushes in all the way home. 

Through clenched teeth Merlin sucks in air, but when Arthur draws back and thrusts back in he moans and his features relax. 

Arthur goes slow at first, as slow as he can, rocking his hips shallowly as he kisses Merlin's throat, his shoulders, the upper part of his chest. As if he likes that, Merlin's eyes slip closed and his head arches back. “Like it like this,” he says. “Like it slow and spine melting.”

Drops of sweat dropping from his forehead, Arthur rasps, “Don't know if I can last.”

Having said that, he slows all movement, hips stilling, arms shaking, his body covered in a fine sheen of sweat. He rubs his face against Merlin's, catches his mouth in a kiss, scrapes his teeth along his chin.

In response Merlin's hands roam his back and sides, the crease of his arse, the back of his thighs. The touch is light, good, heady. 

With a ragged breath, Arthur's hips snag forward, giving him a rush of pleasure as tightness and friction almost rob of him of an orgasm. “I-- Merlin, I...” He ducks his head, trying to keep still, wanting to with all his might, wanting it to last and last and last. Stay on this high. Where he is. "You don't know what this is doing to me. You don't. I can't."

“Arthur, I didn't mean--” Merlin gasps. “That I never wanted you to come.”

Eyebrows pulling together, Arthur says, “I want you to enjoy us.”

“I do." Merlin sighs, mock put upon -- and grins. "You can also not torture yourself.”

Arthur's too wrecked for a smile. But he takes one last kiss and then slides is cock in deep. As Merlin releases a sharp intake of breath, Arthur's fingers dig into Merlin's hips. 

That's when the push and pull begins. The pace gets faster. Merlin cinches his legs, muscles tightening, around Arthur's waist and cradles the curve of his arse, spurring him on. As Arthur starts thrusting in and pulling out, he tilts his head for a kiss and slants his mouth across Merlin's, his tongue mimicking the actions of his cock.

The harder and deeper he drives into Merlin, the harsher the kiss gets until the both of them shake, fail to hold it, and come, one on the heels of the other. In the aftershocks one mouth searches the other for a last kiss.

Afterwards they lie there, facing the foot-board, Arthur on his belly with his hand on Merlin's chest, Merlin ruffling his hair. “Should I get back to my room? So the others don't find out?”

Arthur catches Merlin's hand. “No, sleep here. Sleep with me.”

“I did that already.”

“Stupid, I meant for real. REM phase and all.”

Merlin grins and Arthur takes that for acquiescence. Arthur drags the duvet on top of them.

He nurses himself to sleep with the thought of waking in Merlin's arms, of having another go when it's still so early in the morning he can think they're the only two people left in the world. What he doesn't dream of is that he will be woken by someone stealing into his room.

Of course, that's exactly what happens.


	7. Chapter 7

Arthur blinks and Morgana comes into focus. “I don't believe it,” she's saying so very loudly she's hurting his eardrums. “I really don't.”

Merlin shifts, knuckles his eyes and then properly opens them. He pokes his head out of the tangle of covers he's burrowed under and he, too, breaks into a gape. “Whoa. What's happening?”

Arthur gets an elbow under him and adjusts the covers so he's not flashing his sister. He's not going there ever. “Morgana,” Arthur snaps. “Can't you see that you've just barged in on something private? We're naked under here.”

“And confused,” Merlin adds. “Naked and confused, never a good mix.”

Morgana stands tall and proud, drumming her fingers on her arm in a staccato rhythm. “I can't believe you did this. I was trying. I was trying so hard to make things work for everyone.” Her voice rises exponentially. “What were you even thinking!” 

So saying, and without furthering any other explanation as to her behaviour, she storms out. Arthur's jaw drops open. He turns to Merlin. “I'll go see what's got her in such a bind.”

As Arthur makes to hop off the bed, Merlin wraps a hand around his arm. “Wait, I'll come with you. Maybe she's upset we kept her in the dark about us.”

“She knew,” Arthur says, not specifying how or why he knows Morgana knows. “She knew I wanted you. It's just that she's controlling and in a strop because she thought this wasn't happening. And now that it has she's realising she had no say in it.”

Merlin's frown lines join together. “Really?”

“Told you,” Arthur says, this time jumping off the bed. “She's controlling.” _Like my father_ , he doesn't say.

Merlin rolls off the covers and into a standing position. Arthur takes one second to appreciate the lines of his body before he gets his mind back on track: Morgana.

So as not to parade naked before Arthur's sister and whomever may already be up, they throw something on quickly, Merlin borrowing a shirt from Arthur and hoisting up his discarded joggers. 

Arthur just retrieves fresh clothes.

When they're as presentable as they can get, they fling themselves down the corridor and into the kitchen, where Morgana is. Together with Leon, Gwen and Mithian.

When she sees them, Morgana slams the door of the fridge shut. “Don't,” she says through clenched teeth.

“Morgana,” Arthur says, starting to get definitely ticked off. “I don't know why you're so angry. Or why you've chosen to be like this. But stop it. It was you who invaded my privacy for whatever reason. I should be the one who's angry. And to top it all off you have no right to meddle.”

“First of all I invaded your privacy, as you say, because I wanted to ask you what you wanted for breakfast. And secondly I have every right in the world to meddle,” Morgana says angrily, pointing a finger at him. “I have if I want to protect my friends. You slept with Merlin when you said you wouldn't.”

Mithian chokes on her toast, puts it back down on the plate, and after having rapidly wiped her fingers on a paper napkin, she leaves, saying, “Better leave you alone for this one.”

Virtually no one pays attention to her exit.

“Oi!” Merlin tells Morgana, eyes flashing in anger for the first time since Arthur saw him on the road on the first day of their holiday, “thank you for the public service announcement!” Merlin takes a step backwards and away from them all. “And thank you, Arthur, for not telling me that you'd just changed your mind about me and hadn't meant to get with me before the sex happened. It makes me feel as though I forced your hand yesterday.”

Arthur turns to Merlin. “I told her before it quite hit me. Before I understood that I wanted to take a risk on you despite being leery of relationships. And I didn't change my mind because you came to me. I would have come to you on my own, in time.”

Merlin seems mollified, his eyes losing the spark of anger Morgana put in them, his lips smoothing in a near smile, when Morgana fuels the fire again. “You're being dishonest now, Arthur. You were so sure of your feelings for Merlin, whom you don't actually know, that you slept with Gwen the night you both got here!”

“What!” Arthur shouts. 

Leon goes extremely white and drops the knife he'd been using to butter his toasted bread. “Can you pray say that again?”

Gwen bursts upright, twisting the napkin she's been holding. “Morgana, you know that's in no way true.”

Morgana smiles. “There's no need to deny it, Gwen,” she says. “I saw you slip out of Arthur's room. Arthur had nothing on.”

“I had boxers on,” Arthur shouts, only belatedly realising that that's the wrong thing to say. Meanwhile Leon stands too, clears his throat and says to Gwen, “Why didn't you tell me about this?”

“Because nothing happened,” Gwen says. “Because it was between me and Arthur.”

Morgana shakes her head slowly back and forth. “I'm sorry, Leon,” she says, “but it's better this way. Arthur and Gwen have always loved each other so deeply nobody else ever stood a chance.”

Leon rubs his hands on his trousers, glancing at the ceiling as if to find strength there. “I see,” he says, “I guess I was never as good as Arthur. I was just a second fiddle and he--” Leon palms his nape. “Arthur was always the golden boy.” He turns to Gwen with a sad light in his eyes. “The one you wanted.”

Gwen clings to Leon's arm. “Leon,” she says, “you can't believe that I'd do that to you. Even if I wanted to get back with Arthur, which I don't, I wouldn't do it without telling you we were over!”

“You went to him the other night without telling me,” Leon's not shouting; he's never one for shouting. But he sounds angry and gutted both. Arthur wants to interfere but he knows it's not his place whatever the misunderstanding.

Gwen lets go of Leon, as if scalded. “Leon, I thought you'd believe me. That we were stronger than that.”

“I don't know what to think. You left him for me,” Leon croaks. “Why wouldn't you leave me for him? I'm boring and quiet and less dashing than Arthur.”

Gwen presses a hand against her mouth. “I don't believe this. I don't--” She whips round to Morgana. “Tell him that you don't know a thing. Tell him you didn't see me do anything other than get out of Arthur's room. Tell him!”

“Gwen,” Morgana says, going to her to take Gwen's hand. “I saw you leave that room. The room of a grown and basically naked man. And at night too. What should I think but that you want to be with Arthur? And that's all right. You're perfect for my brother. He's perfect for you. When you were together you were so happy. Blessed. Like my mother never was. She married a man she didn't love and then fell for Uther and realised that she'd made a mistake but was too afraid to follow her heart. You're just like that only in reverse.”

Gwen shakes Morgana's hand off, but Morgana goes on, “You should fight for that happiness, the happiness you had with Arthur. Make it long lasting. Mistakes can happen but...” She cocks her head at Arthur, looking for all the world like she wants the best for him even though she's clearly off the deep end. “I want my brother to be as fulfilled and hopeful as he was with you. I want to see you as radiant as you were when you were with him because he's my little brother and you're my best friend.”

“Correction,” Gwen says on a gulp. “You were my best friend.”

Morgana winces as if she'd just been punched. They all fall quiet for a brief spell or they do until Gwaine walks in, asking, “What the hell's going on? I heard shouting.”

Leon stalks away from the table and into the living room, where he picks his car keys from a bowl. “Arthur slept with both Gwen and Merlin,” he says, before leaving the house.

“Wait!” Gwen goes after him, taking Morgana's car keys. The door closes with a bang after her.

“You did what?” Gwaine says, fists bunching at his sides. “You preyed on Merlin's feelings, did you? You led him on.”

Arthur lifts his palms, stumbling backwards because Gwaine's in his face. “Look, you've got it all wrong. I didn't sleep with Gwen. I didn't sleep around. Morgana's got it all wrong. She saw something and misinterpreted. She's since decided she must dictate how our lives should be run. But she's only acting on the basis of what _she_ thinks is right and of an entirely wrong assumption. You're free to rip me a new one if and when you have proof that what she says is true. And--” He spins so he's angled towards Merlin. “If Merlin really thinks I played him I won't even fight you. But till then all of this is absolutely none of your business.”

Arthur reaches out for Merlin but Merlin pulls away and scowls. “I don't know what to believe,” he says. “This is your sister we're talking about. She should know you. I only met you three days ago.” He forks both hands through his hair. “And if she thinks you did. I don't know. Maybe you did. I need to clear my head. I need to think about this. Let me go and clear my head. I'll be just outside.”

Arthur wishes for nothing more than to be able to stop Merlin with the right words but he knows that he can't. Merlin needs a few moments to process and Arthur needs to deal with his sister.

He rounds on her, brow twitching with displeasure. He very nearly wants to strangle her, metaphorically speaking, and it's a lot that he's not started shouting outright. “Morgana, I want to know why you're doing this. You realise I didn't sleep with Gwen? That it was all above board? I mean, why? Why are you even trying to ruin this thing with Merlin for me?”

Gwaine scrubs at his face and turns away so they won't see he's fazed. He stands there almost motionless for a minute or so, breathing in and out. Arthur alternately doesn't care and wants to take pity but first he's got Morgana to tackle. He's glad, though, when Gwaine chooses to go back to his room to sort himself out. Another door thunders shut. 

“Morgana,” he says once they're alone.

She makes to grasp his hand but he doesn't let her. She's got tears in her eyes when she says, “You're my brother. I thought... I thought everything was falling back into place for you. With the right person. I thought.” Her brow wrinkles in confusion. “I was sure you and Gwen were slowly making it happen again. That's why I warned you off Merlin. I thought you were having him on the side while things with Gwen weren't settled yet.”

Arthur pinches the bridge of his nose in an effort to force away the tension headache starting behind his eyes. “Morgana, do you genuinely think I would lead Merlin on while I was getting back with Gwen? You think so little of me as to believe that?”

“She was in your room,” Morgana says. “And you've had lots of meaningless flings this year.”

“Or,” Arthur continues listing the reasons why Morgana's view of him is so wrong, “that I'd go behind Leon's back?”

“I thought you didn't like Leon,” Morgana says. “You were pretty nasty about him for a while.”

Arthur throws his hands up in the air. “Yeah, because I was bitter. And angry. And all worked up. So yeah, I'm not Gandhi. That doesn't mean... That I would... Christ. You really think I'm like that.”

“You did break Vivian's heart.”

“Oh my God,” Arthur says. “That was a one night stand. One Vivian agreed to. If she wasn't happy with that, she should have said so outright. Why are you so ready to think so badly of me. I don't know what to do with you. I really don't.”

Morgana's eyes water. “You mean to say you didn't want to get back with Gwen – even subconsciously – and that you were really only gunning for Merlin?”

“Yes, Morgana,” Arthur says. “I was only gunning for Merlin. Gwen and I talked. We cleared the air. She helped me move on. Then I realised I was attracted to Merlin, spent time with him and liked it. It's been three days and I'm done for. I'm...” He chokes on his words. “I'm really, seriously into Merlin, Morgana.” 

Morgana dabs at her eyes with the heel of her hand. “You are? I thought—I thought.”

Arthur doesn't answer that but he sucks in a big breath in the hopes it'll calm him. “I don't really care what you thought. I told you to stay out of it and you didn't. What were you even trying to do?”

“Get you and Gwen back together,” Morgana says, eyes wet. “And Gwaine and Merlin. It was meant to be perfect.”

“It's not,” Arthur spits out. He wants to be angry at Morgana. He really wants to. And he is. If he let himself go he'd probably be able to spit out very hurtful and spiteful things. But she's nearly crying, Morgana who's always so put together and somewhat stoic, and he can't kick someone when they're down. He doesn't think he'll be able to think about her without feeling the bile in his throat rising or without experiencing the urge to punch something, – a boxing session would do – but he can't have a go at her anymore. She's his sister. He won't. That doesn't mean he wishes to hear more of her words and crazy theories. She's hurt him enough – and Merlin – to last them a long time. “All of this mess, Morgana? It's not perfect. And it wasn't up to you to decide what perfect was.”

She jerks her head up. “Arthur,” she lounges for him, probably intending to grab his hand, but he holds his palms up so she won't be able to. “I'll go look for Merlin. Hopefully, he'll understand that you misjudged the situation and were talking out of your arse when you said those things about me and Gwen. If he doesn't--”

Arthur doesn't want to contemplate what will happen if he doesn't. He hopes Merlin's read him right. That he has a better grasp of him than Morgana does, but then he despairs, because if Morgana, who's his sister, thinks that he'd played people, then why wouldn't Merlin?

Arthur finds Merlin sitting on the stump of a fallen tree a little way away from the main drive leading up to the chalet. His head is bowed and he's alternatively sniffing and upturning a sprig of pine. Arthur can't pick out his expression from this far out but the breath leaves his body all the same when he sees him. 

Hands in his pockets, he ploughs though the snow and up to Merlin. “You left the house in your shirtsleeves.”

Merlin looks up at him. “At first I wasn't even feeling the cold.”

Arthur reaches his hand out to Merlin but then, not sure the move is welcome, he drops it. “Merlin, I--”

“I've thought about it,” Merlin says, preventing Arthur from expanding on his innocence. “And I believe you. It's a gut feeling, with us being a new thing and me not having known you long, but I think you didn't lie to me.”

Arthur takes a seat next to Merlin on the stump. “I came out here to try and convince you but--” His lips tilt upwards. “But I'm awed by your faith in me.”

Merlin's eyes shine. “I understand about Gwen—”

Arthur pushes his fists deep down in his pockets, his shoulders going up. “These last few months it's not been about her, I think. My moping, as Morgana'd say, wasn't about her. It's been about myself, as egotistic as that may sound. My failures. That's why, I think, I couldn't let it go. The break-up, I mean.”

“I think I get that,” Merlin says, dropping his sprig. “I just didn't want to be lied to. I didn't want to think I'd been mistaken about you. And I'm not.”

Arthur catches at Merlin's hand. “I never lied to you.”

“I know.”

Dipping his head, brow furrowing Arthur asks, “But how?”

“I think I can read people.”

“You also said you didn't want to be mistaken about me? “ Arthur asks. “Mistaken how?”

Merlin turns his hand in his and twines their fingers. “The very first day I thought you were a bit of a prat. Short of temper. Sarcastic. Showing off your money. I thought you were good looking but a prat.”

“I don't know if I should be happy that you changed your mind or feel insulted.”

Merlin looks at him indulgently. “A bit of both probably. Though I could tell you something that is sure to make you happier.”

Arthur lowers their joined hands to his thigh. “Something better than being called a prat?”

“Yeah,” Merlin says. “I can tell you what I thought of you starting from day two.”

Arthur inches closer so they're sitting hip to hip. He angles his head towards Merlin, the sides of his mouth turning up and up. “What did you think of me then?”

“That you were still good-looking but not as much of a prat as I'd thought,” Merlin says, “and that you were the kind of person I could fall for in the blink of an eye. I was right on that score because I, um, did. Fall for you. Which is why I wouldn't have liked to learn that I'd been wrong. Or rather right the first time round in thinking you wrong for me.”

At the declaration, Arthur's heart gives a staggering thump, so Arthur catches Merlin's lips with his. Merlin answers the tug of his mouth promptly, opening up, letting the tip of Arthur's tongue brush with his. 

Their kiss is slow and sweet but exploratory nonetheless. It makes warmth bloom inside of Arthur in a way a simple kiss shouldn't prompt. 

Wanting to deepen the contact, Arthur lets go of Merlin's hand and moves both of his up so he's grasping his face. He can't not pull Merlin to him. 

When they've run out of breath, Merlin nibbles the tender flesh of his bottom lip, making Arthur gasp. Once he's obtained that result, he withdraws. 

“Are we good?” Arthur asks, because even after the kiss he can't quite come to terms with the fact that Merlin's made peace with all that's happened today without running away from him screaming.

“I think we're good,” Merlin says. “I think we're good to go everywhere we want from here.” His eyes twinkle and then he picks up the sprig of pine he'd been handling before Arthur came to find him. He holds it above their heads and says, “You owe me another kiss.”

Arthur rolls his eyes. “It's not mistletoe.”

“Are you really going with that when some snogging could be going on?”

Arthur draws his eyebrows together. “Let me think?” He taps his chin for show.

Merlin doesn't hesitate to yank him forwards so they can kiss. They do until Merlin shivers and Arthur remembers Merlin's only got a shirt and joggers on and there's snow all around. “Let's go back inside.”

Merlin slumps into a dejected posture. “About that. I don't really think I'm super comfortable facing Morgana right now.”

Arthur isn't either. She's made a mess of things and there's no denying it. Arthur's sure that deep down she meant well, and thought he was screwing Merlin over, but the fact remains she might have damaged the relationship Arthur has with Merlin. Which is one Arthur would rather see go a long way. Not to mention what she's done to Gwen and Leon, too.

“I know,” Arthur says, “and I'm her brother. But I understand you being less than pleased with her. I think my sister and I need some time apart actually. And also for her to grovel.”

Merlin snorts. “I won't go into that. She's your sister and I won't insult her. But what do we do now?”

Arthur hasn't really thought that far. They've both been living in a holiday world and though he meant to pursue Merlin outside of it he isn't sure how to act now that the festive spell is apparently over. “Are you uncomfortable with me?” Arthur asks, needing to make sure.

“What, no!” Merlin says. “Why would you think that? Morgana made a mistake. She's the one I'm having a problem with right now. Not you.”

“Okay then,” Arthur says.

“You don't hate me because I'm angry at your sister, do you?” Merlin asks, needing some clarification of his own. “It's just that she clearly thinks I'm not good enough for you. That's why I'm mad at her.”

“No! Of course I don't hate you,” Arthur says. Morgana deserves Merlin's anger and then some. Arthur will forgiver her – in time and after she's made amends – but Merlin doesn't owe her that. “No way. She's the one who meddled when she shouldn't have.”

“Okay then. If you don't hate me and I don't hate you – it's the opposite, in fact -- then we're in a good place to start over, I guess.” Merlin thrusts his hand at him. “Hello, I'm Merlin.”

Instead of shaking his hand, Arthur ruffles Merlin's hair and kisses the top of his head. “Idiot,” he says, and then he takes Merlin's hand and stands, forcing him to get to his feet too. “Come on, let's go back inside. Your hands are like icicles.”

Merlin digs his feet in. “Um. I'd rather not. Not yet.”

“Just to pack up, Merlin,” Arthur says. “We're packing up, changing our tickets, flying home, and spending what remains of Christmas day at mine.”

“You want me at yours?”

Arthur hooks a hand around Merlin's neck and reels him in. “Yeah,” he says. “You say we're good. Then we are. You weren't thinking I was having cold feet about you?”

“No,” Merlin says, burying both of his hands under Arthur's jacket to warm them. “But I saw you as this rational kind of person who'd only let someone in very slowly.”

“Do you want me to dip you, kiss you and have my way with you to prove that I'm not that kind of bloke?”

Merlin breaks into a smile. “Not on the snow, no.”

They thread their way up the drive and back inside. 

Once there, Morgana tries to intercept them but Arthur's growl, consisting of the words 'Not now' stops her. 

As the morning progresses, Morgana's other guests turn up, asking what's happened and what's with the tense atmosphere. None of them answers. 

Instead of addressing those questions, Arthur and Merlin pack up their belongings. When they explain they're going back home the only reason they give is that there's been a family emergency. 

Whether they're believed or not is of little consequence.

There's no need for anybody to know about Morgana's scheming and her strange interpretation of what's happened. General ignorance is the best for all of them. For Arthur and Gwen in case they be suspected of having done what Morgana thought they had, and for Morgana as well because there's no way her meddling can be cast in a good light.

Before going, Arthur and Merlin get hugs from everybody (but Cenred, Morgause, and Gwaine, who's in his room). Arthur is moved by the display of friendship but isn't too comfortable with it. There's just so much emotion he can deal with in the course of a single morning. 

Before long though he and Merlin are loading the boot of Arthur's Range Rover with their things. They're on the way back to get some provisions for the drive to Geneva when Morgana stops them. “Arthur,” she says, biting her nails, “can we talk for a second?”

Arthur doesn't want to. Not now. He wants to be petty and spiteful and not talk to her. But she looks penitent and shaky and she's still the sister he was trying to reconnect to before the holidays began. “I only have a few minutes if I want to get to Geneva by lunchtime,” Arthur says.

“That's more than enough,” Morgana says, her hand at her throat. “I just wanted to say that I love you and I'm sorry.” She looks behind him and at Merlin. “I'm very sorry and I apologise. To you to, Merlin. See, I was convinced Arthur loved Gwen and that he--”

“He'd hurt me,” Merlin finishes for her.

“Yes,” she says simply. “I thought he wanted Gwen and was about to get her back. I was convinced that you'd be a casualty of that.”

“You should have a bit more faith in him,” Merlin says, making Arthur gasp at his tone, at the faith and admiration in it. “I've just met Arthur and I think he's a decent man. Upright and quite noble. I'm sure you've watched him make more mistakes than I have, but you should have trusted him more too.”

“You're right.”

Merlin shakes his head. “Most of the time, no, I'm not. But I think I've got this one right.” He flashes Arthur a smile before meeting Morgana's eyes again.

Morgana nods slowly. “I--” she hesitates – “I apologise for ruining Christmas for you.”

Merlin lets his expression soften. “It's not ruined. Not ruined at all. I'm quite looking forward to the rest of the day actually.” Humming under his breath, Merlin adds one last thing. “If I were you I'd check in with Gwen and Leon.”

“I already have,” Morgana says to explain that she's trying to make up for her mistakes. “I told them the truth. That I made the wrong assumption and should never have spoken out loud when all I had was circumstantial evidence. I also apologised profusely. Gwen told me they're patching things up and that Leon's mortified he believed me. They're fine hopefully.”

“I'll text her from the airport,” Arthur says, “and Leon. I'll tell him what went down.”

“Do,” Morgana says. “And tell her I'm sorry. I just-- just thought I knew what was best for everybody.”

They don't hug but they don't part on bed terms either. Arthur and his sister will probably have to discuss this in future and at length but for now they can take things as they are. Morgana acted out of misguided notions and a god complex, but she does love Arthur, Gwen and Gwaine. Arthur can appreciate that.

For a while Arthur and Morgana are not going to be as close as they were before this holiday but they're not on the path of war either. That's good. That's something. They've worked things out before, they can do this too.

Luggage stored inside it, Arthur's shutting the boot lid down, when Gwaine jogs up to them. “Before you leave,” he says, doubling over and sounding completely winded, “I want to tell you something.”

“Go ahead,” says Arthur, jiggling his car keys. 

“God, Gwaine,” Merlin says, “you didn't need to give yourself a heart attack to talk to us. If you'd failed to catch up with us you could've rung us.”

“This needed to be said face to face,” Gwaine says, still short of breath. “I've just got the truth out of Morgana and I want you to know that I have nothing to do with her plans.”

“Why would you have had anything to do with them?” Merlin asks, eyebrows scrunched. “She wanted to get Gwen and Arthur back together.”

“And me and you,” Gwaine tells Merlin, flicking only a cursory glance at Arthur. “Because she knew I liked you, Merlin, and she said, “I'll invite him over for you so you can charm him as you know how to'.” Gwaine straightens, his hand still on his heart to contain its beating. There's still a light pant there when he says, “And I said, 'Good all right, I like having Merlin around. And why not? But I didn't know that she'd put it into her head to do more than invite you here. Or that she'd say those things to poor Leon. Or that she'd... Stubborn Morgana.”

“Wait, wait, wait,” Merlin says, raising his palms to slow Gwaine down. “You specifically got me here to put the moves on me?”

“Yeah,” Gwaine says, wincing. “I thought you knew I liked you. And I do. Lots. I think we might work well together--”

Arthur balls his fist around the keys. He wants to shut Gwaine up. He wants to stop this and make sure Gwaine never pours his heart out. Because Gwaine's handsome and fun in a way Arthur isn't. And he's charming, Morgana's right. So much so that there's no doubt Merlin likes him. Petty as it might be, Arthur doesn't want Gwaine to move Merlin and convince him he's the right one for him. 

It's irrational and probably wrong of him to think that Merlin would be so easily moved to change partners. But the fear's there and as much as he hates it he can't wholly tamp it down. He and Merlin are just so new and have already had so many problems that he's scared of facing more. He's got to look elsewhere to overcome his fear and act honourably.

Gwaine misses that obviously, so he goes on. “I just need you to know that I had nothing to do with the rest of Morgana's plans or with what went down this morning. When I walked in I was clueless. The scene I walked in on? I thought it had nothing to do with me. Except it does a little, as it turns out, because Morgana was rooting for me and you.”

“Gwaine,” Merlin says, stopping him from saying more. He shifts his weight and gets very serious. “You're my friend but I--”

“I know,” Gwaine says, “You're with Arthur. And I’m okay with that. Hurts my pride. Stings a little. But Christ I'm not going to make it hard for you or raise a stink or play rivals with Arthur. I'm just not wired like that.”

Merlin's smile makes Arthur's breath catch even if it's not directed at him. 

Wrapping a hand around Gwaine's elbow, Merlin says, “Thank you, Gwaine. Thank you.”

“What for?”

“Being a friend.”

Gwaine pats the hand Merlin's got around his arm. “I'll always be your friend. But warn me if Pendragon there dumps you.”

That sound more like a joke than anything but it still gets Arthur's hackles up.

“I won't.” Arthur steps in the conversation. “You can forget about that.” Then he realises than he's been less than nice while Gwaine was being chivalric, and so he adds, “but thank you for being a friend to Merlin.”

"Pendragon, you really have no sense of humour," Gwaine tells him.

There's not much to say after that so Arthur gets in the car, waits for Merlin and Gwaine to hug it out, and then it's off to the airport with them.

Before they board the plane back to London, Gwen texts: _“all fine now. X”_


	8. Chapter 8

“So,” Arthur says, opening the door to his flat so Merlin can step inside, “this is it. Home.”

Still wearing his puffy coat, Merlin stands in the middle of his lounge and looks around. 

“There's no tree or decorations,” Arthur says. “There's very little that's domestic about the place and I doubt I've got a lot of food in the fridge--”

Merlin interrupts him, grinning from ear to ear. “Arthur, it's very nice. A bit posh but...”

When Arthur's face falls, Merlin bursts out laughing. “I had you there.” He points at Arthur's stuck out lip, which Arthur sometimes can't control. “I had you.”

“Well, I thought you were serious and you might have been more compli--”

Merlin rushes him and sticks his tongue in his mouth in a kiss that he probably means as a joke – a messy one that's so messy no one would really kiss like that – but that still turns Arthur's knees to putty. 

That said, Merlin's bad kiss act soon has them doubling over laughing. Arthur bends forward and careens into Merlin, Merlin loses his balance, clutches at his sleeve for support and falls back, Arthur landing on top of him.

“Ow,” Merlin says, laughing so hard he hits his head on the floor. “And ow again.”

“Perhaps we should stop crashing into each other,” Arthur suggests, even though he wedges his leg between Merlin's until Merlin presses his crotch against it. “Nah,” Merlin says, going for funny but sounding wrecked. “You'd be taking away half the fun.”

“I have a functional sofa-bed right there,” Arthur says, tilting his head towards it. 

“Mmm,” Merlin says, shifting and pushing their cocks together. “And here I was thinking you were far more adventurous than that.”

“I am,” says Arthur. “I was thinking of your welfare.”

“So kind,” says Merlin, digging into his pockets to get something out of it. “But I was thinking of something simpler.” He lifts his arm and when Arthur turns his head to see what it is he's holding he sees the pine sprig Merlin picked up this morning. It's dried up, shorn of needles, but still smells fresh. “Can I have a kiss, right here, right now?”

“It's still not mistletoe.”

“No,” Merlin confirms, eyes shining brightly, grin firmly in place. “No, in fact, they tell me you're required to have full on sex when someone holds pine sprigs above your head.”

Arthur cranes his head to look at the shrivelled sprig. “Is that a fact?

“Absolutely.”

“Then I guess.” Arthur sucks Merlin's lip in his mouth. “We'll have to do what's required.”

“Right here, right now?”

With their tongues curling around each other and Merlin's hand going for the bulge in Arthur's trousers – thus cancelling out most of Arthur's cognitive capacity – it takes Arthur a while to respond, but when he does, he says, “No, we're still going to have to move it to the sofa.”

“I was right; you are a prat.”

“Well, Merry Christmas, Merlin. You're now stuck with a prat”

 

The End


End file.
